The Siege of Shanxi
by Made Nightwing
Summary: 2157: The Turian Hierarchy launches a secretive war against a new species known as 'humans'. The first major battleground is the outlying colony world of Shanxi, defended by the 3rd Garrison Division of the Systems Alliance Marines. With overwhelming odds against them, the hopes of Shanxi rest with the fledgling Alliance fleet...and unlikely allies within the ranks of their foes.
1. Chapter 1

**THE SIEGE OF SHANXI**

Chapter One: Prologue

I don't own Bioware

**SENIOR OFFICER QUARTERS**

**GARRISON BASE 'ECHO'**

**TWENTY KILOMETRES FROM OUTREACH CITY**

**ALLIANCE COLONY SHANXI**

**JUNE 6****TH****, 2157**

=The time is: Zero. Four. Thirty= The housekeeping computer politely informed the reclining figure on the bed. =Would you like to implement Protocol Gurung Alpha? Or do you wish to delay it?=

Lieutenant Colonel Ganju Gurung, former Executive Officer of the Royal Gurkha Rifles (British Army) and current Chief of Staff for the 3rd Garrison Division (Systems Alliance Marine Corps), awoke feeling refreshed and renewed. He had, as usual, deliberately limited himself to just two pints of bitter at the Officer's Club on the previous evening. The pleasant, often cathartic, experience of getting astoundingly drunk was outweighed by the value of beginning the morning in good spirits.

"Implement the protocol, if you'd be so kind." Ganju was often the butt of many jokes for his consistent politeness, even to computers. As he neatly folded back his thermal blanket and slipped his feet over the side of the bed into his slippers, he reminded himself that those who mocked him had no idea what good manners were.

Soft violin music floated out of the speakers, positioned strategically around the room so that he would never be without the comforting strains of the second movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony.

First in his morning routine came Ganju's bath. If there was one thing that Sandhurst Royal Military College had imparted to him, it was the value of a bath every morning. A shower was nice for when you were utterly filthy, or simply in a hurry, but a gentleman should always take the time to enjoy his wash. It was one of the many small things that an officer could do to ease the strain of leadership and strengthen his own morale.

For seven long, luxurious minutes, Ganju relaxed into the hot water, thoroughly soaping and scrubbing himself. The importance of personal hygiene in the life of a soldier could never be underestimated. After seventy two hours without the most basic cleansing, the human body started to decay. The loss of skin cells, hair follicles, the build up of bacteria around the crotch, armpits, behind the ears and between the toes, all would lead to sickness. Ask any man what the most deadly weapon in the American Civil War had been, and he would tell you: The wash cloth. Savvy commanders had encouraged cleanliness among the troops, and consequently, when the time came to do battle, the soldiers were not dead from dysentery, skin rot or pneumonia.

Ganju had learned the hard way during the fight to retake Kabul from the resurgent People's Islamic Revolution. As a young Lance Corporal, he had been so focused on keeping his squad of riflemen alive and fighting, he had neglected a seemingly insignificant wound on his left leg. His foolishness had almost cost him his leg once the damn cut began to fester in the putrid fighting conditions. The rebuke the battalion surgeon had given him had been stinging enough to stick with him during all three of his combat tours as an NCO and both of his fighting deployments as an officer. He had never neglected his hygiene again. A basin of half clean water or some wet wipes would suffice, but a hot bath was just more enjoyable.

=The time allotted for bathing has expired=

The computer's simulated inflections were almost laughingly crude. It almost made Ganju long for the days when any officer would be granted a batman to take care of personal details. Now, the only one lucky enough to merit a 'personal assistant' was the General himself.

Rising from the water, he retrieved a towel and vigorously dried himself. Retrieving a toothbrush and an electric razor, he took care of the other aspects of his personal grooming.

"Computer, time check."

=The time is: Zero. Four. Forty=

First stage of morning routine dealt with in ten minutes. Just like every other morning. Ganju was not an obsessive compulsive, but he couldn't deny the basic satisfaction it gave him to simply have his life in order.

Shanxi's day cycle was longer than the Earth standard. Some of the garrison troopers grumbled at having to tack an extra two hours onto everything, but Ganju _liked_ the extra time. It meant an earlier sunrise and a later sunset. More time to get things done. But before any work or training could be done, there were important things that _had _to be dealt with first.

Removing a small box from the top of his desk, he placed it on the ground, then sat cross legged next to it. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and took himself away from his functional, practical, but tasteful room. He was again in hills of Nepal, sitting on the rock overlooking the valley in which his father's flocks were peacefully grazing.

"Shishka, Mahakali. Gods who shelter me, nourish me, and give me strength. I ask for nothing more than health for life and courage for death. Grant me these things, and be ever present in my hour of need. Without you, there can be no victory."

Though he had been ribbed for his good manners, no man had ever mocked Ganju for his personal beliefs. He spent twenty minutes every morning completely focused on his prayer and meditation. Hinduism helped him to appreciate the spiritual things in everyday life. It added perspective to his role in the wider scheme of things.

Opening the lid of the box, Ganju reverently removed his long, curved knife from inside. The _kukri was_ the long bladed knife used by every Gurkha. Ganju had hand forged his with tough Sheffield steel, and sharpening it every morning was his way of praying to Mahakali, the Goddess of War.

All was right with his world.

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**GARRISON COMMANDER'S QUARTERS**

**0500 HOURS**

"Good morning General," Corporal Henkshaw was careful to speak with a low voice. "I let you have an extra half hour, sir, so I suggest you hurry up and get ready for you morning run with Colonel Gurung, sir."

"Henkshaw?" A head entrenched in a pillow groaned as the brain inside it swam back to consciousness.

"Yessir?"

"Bugger off."

"Of course sir, after you're up and on your way for a nice seven kilometre jog with your Chief of Staff, sir." Henkshaw opened his Commanding Officer's clothing drawers and withdrew a sweatsuit and running boots from inside. He had served with the General before, once during the Second Falklands War, and again during the riots in Lowell City on Mars. Henkshaw had heard a comms device ringing ten feet away, and shoved the man closest to him away from the predictable explosion of an IED. The act of selflessness had cost Henkshaw his legs, and earned him the eternal friendship of the General.

"I'm fifty one, Corporal, I'm excused from running." Brigadier General Joaquim Williams extricated himself from the tumble of blankets he had thrown himself on top of after a night of drinking with his senior officers. The captain of the _Astral Skimmer _had stopped by at the Officer's Club for a friendly drink, then been carried back to his transport shuttle on a stretcher. Williams hadn't stinted on the tequila, succeeding in drinking the Merchant Navy puke right under the table. The predictable hangover was now slamming into him like a battering ram in a breeching exercise.

"Your wife told me to make sure you didn't get slack and lazy, sir," Henkshaw's clipped Cockney tone was reproving, but still cheerful. "Until you lose your legs, you've really got no excuse, sir."

"I suppose not," Williams gazed up ruefully. "Alright, thank you Corporal, have my shower and my coffee waiting for me when I get back."

"Aye aye, sir," Henkshaw nodded politely in lieu of a salute, then excused himself. The General would want a hearty breakfast after his run, and the Corporal was an excellent cook. Just another ordinary day.

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"Good morning Colonel," Williams trotted down the steps of his official residence to where his Chief of Staff was waiting. "Sleep well?"

"As I always do, sir," Ganju grinned at the sight of the General's bloodshot eyes. "Might I humbly suggest you begin abstaining from alcohol, sir? You're not as young as you used to be."

"I wasn't passing up a chance to beat Captain Grimes at his own game," Williams growled through his throbbing headache. "Now let's get this over with."

According to the standard Earth calendar, today was a Sunday, which meant everyone got a day of light duties. The more enthusiastic troopers in the garrison would use that as an opportunity to catch up on some PT, already there were men running the jogging track around the runway.

"Colonel Pressly got himself into trouble again last night," Ganju deliberately slowed his pace to a brisk jog, just to make it fair on his superior. He was able to use the extra breath to make an abbreviated daily report. "General?"

"I heard." Joaquim Williams had been the fastest runner in every unit he had served in. Right up until the time he hit the forty five mark, he had still been able to outrun any man who dared challenge him. His promotion and assignment to Shanxi had taken away much of the time he used to dedicate to training, slowing him down somewhat. "Was it serious?"

"No, just a mild case of verbally abusing the waiter who advised him to call it a night," Ganju sniffed. "I wish you'd listen to my reports and replace him, sir."

"Matthias may have issues with his personal life, but are they affecting his professional duties?"

"No," Ganju admitted. "But sir, he..."

"I'll speak to him," Williams cut him off. "But I'm not going to put my best commander on the carpet over a few loose words."

"Yes, sir." There were times when the General's easy going nature clashed with Ganju's professionalism. Williams was far too soft to be a feared commander. Instead, he was a beloved one. True, he demanded, and received, high standards of training and discipline. But as long as uniforms were squared away, bunks were made, PT performed to above satisfactory standards, and proper respect paid to officers, then anything else went. Drugs were a big 'NO', but alcohol was always available after duty hours were finished. Garrison life was boring, the troops needed entertainment.

As Chief of Staff, Ganju was responsible for making sure all officers and men in the division were up to the standards expected of the. It was a huge undertaking, but one he could perform with speed, pride, and efficiency. A major downside was that sometimes he just **couldn't** do his job. True, Colonel Matthias Pressly **was** an exceptional field tactician, but he drank like a sailor permanently on leave.

Ganju picked up speed, Williams struggled to keep up. The Gurkha felt a twinge of shame at his momentary pettiness and dropped back. "By the way sir, Commander DiMisso informed me that the _Astral Skimmer _will be departing for its examination of the new, dormant relay, along with the rest of the science vessels. SSV _Lepanto _and SSV _Leyte Gulf_ will be accompanying them as escorts."

"I wish them luck," Williams looked up at the early morning sky. The sun was beginning to shine on the horizon. "Activating a dormant relay would be a massive part of our colonial expansion. Who knows what new worlds it could open up?"

"I share your enthusiasm sir. Just as long as Grimes doesn't get something wrong and blow everything up."

"Grimes may be a bad captain, but he's a good scientist. What could he do wrong? Make it more dormant than it already is?"

"Or land in someone else's backyard and start an intergalactic war?" Ganju joked. "Wouldn't that be something?"

"No thanks," General Williams breathed slightly easier as his feet fell into the usual rhythm against the ground. "I would be perfectly content to not once have to do the job they pay me for."

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**SSV **_**LEYTE GULF**_

_**TALEVERA-**_**CLASS FRIGATE**

**IN ORBIT OVER SHANXI**

"All hands, this is Staff Commander DiMisso." The heavy frigate's CO stood on the bridge of his ship. "We have a very important mission assigned to us today. We are to escort the _Astral Skimmer_ and her accompanying science vessels to Project OUTBOUND. Today, we begin investigating the possibility of actually activating a dormant Mass Relay."

Everyone, from the engineers to the Marines, perked up their ears at the news. It meant something different to each of them. To the Marines, it meant more worlds to find and explore. To the navigators, it meant untold wonders and challenges of deep space exploration. The engineers...well, they immediately started complaining about the extra workload.

"I'm not going to waste your time with a fancy speech," DiMisso continued. "But suffice it to say, this will be an adventure that none of us will forget soon."

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**A/N: And so begins my new project. After the travesty that was the latest Mass Effect comic (I liked the Illusive Man's origins storyline, but they majorly screwed over the Shanxi storyline) I began to imagine what might have REALLY gone on in a protracted siege, those people who might have been involved, and the technology available. I'll follow up on this idea in the next few weeks, introduce more characters, both humans and turians, work out a good plotline, research some tech stuff and get back to you.**


	2. Day of Rest

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Two: Day of Rest

I don't own Bioware

**FORT WORTH**

**WEAPONS TESTING AREA**

**SHANXI**

**0930 HOURS, JUNE 6****TH****, 2157**

=This is Flogger= The heavily accented female voice came across the comm line to the observation area. =Coming in for gun run now=

"Roger that Flogger," Commander William 'Wild Bill' Corthock, the CO of the garrison's air unit, grinned with anticipation as the roar of engines rattled the windows. "You're clear and hot."

=Acknowledged. Firing now=

The Adaptive Strike Fighter (ASF), was an aircraft made obsolete by its own existence. The same technology that gave it the unprecedented ability to exceed hypersonic velocities in atmosphere, had only been developed because of the research into producing a fighter that could not only engage in atmospheric combat, but also venture into space.

The X-25 Raider was now the main fighter aircraft for the burgeoning Alliance fleet, but they were expensive. To deploy them in large numbers to protect a colony was an unthinkable expense. The ASF had been invented using the same technology that gave birth to the Raider, but it was cheaper, and far less versatile, than its older sister.

That was not to say that the ASF was not an exceptional aircraft. It was as fast as a lightning bolt, as manoeuvrable as a stunt plane and with its Cord-Hislop engines, it could venture all the way out into the farthest reaches of a planet's atmosphere, but no further. In vacuum, it would wallow and die. There _was_ one squadron of Raiders on Shanxi, but they were not under Corthock's command. They came under the direction of the Navy's attaché to the Office of Colonial Affairs group at Outreach City.

Limited by his planes, Corthock took comfort in the fact that any pirate venturing into Shanxi's atmosphere would be met and destroyed by one hundred and thirty six fighter jockeys, all of them eager for a fight.

Despite being restricted to atmospheric operations, the ASF was a force to be reckoned with in a straight up fight. Fully loaded, each plane carried thirty Kittyhawk air to air missiles, and could be fitted with any amount of air to ground ordinance. Capable of acting as a fighter, a bomber, or a reconnaissance plane, it was the pinnacle of aerodynamic engineering. Today, Corthock had the chance to demonstrate his newest toys to General Williams.

On the range, a beat up Morsehead-Main Battle Tank was sitting comfortably. The Chobham Mark VII armour was only one grade below what was used on the Odyssey-MBT, the next generation tank operated by the 4th Armoured Cavalry Regiment, the heavy striking arm of the garrison. Many considered it to be impenetrable.

Major Tanya 'Flogger' Alekseyev swooped in out of the sun, her ASF cracking through the sound barrier with ease. Her Terrain Following Radar gave her a clear picture of the target and her escape route. Locking onto her target, she jammed her thumb down on the firing switch. For two seconds she saw her bullets riddle the armoured vehicle, then she lifted her thumb, yanked the stick back and rocketed back into the sky.

"Well would you look at that?" Williams lifted his binoculars. "Your pilot has good aim, Commander."

"Thank you, sir," Corthock's voice was laced with pride. "She's my best squadron commander. Must have killed the Russki's to loan her to us."

"Haven't you heard? National barriers don't exist anymore?" Joaquim turned to his subordinate. "We're all part of one big happy family, and we're supposed to forget centuries of petty hates and arguments that have led to most of the wars in our species."

"Yes sir, and I'm going to marry Claire Rudi and go live with her in that big Beverly Hills mansion, and never work a day in my life," Corthock snorted. "Sir, if they think that I'm supposed to trust some of the yellow skinned bastards I got under my command..."

"So you don't trust Major Li?" The General's tone reminded Corthock of a reprimanding parent.

"Major Li is fine sir." The fighter commander already knew what was coming.

"But he's Chinese in ethnicity, isn't he?"

"Yes sir, but he's an American, sir."

"Right, so it's nationality and not race that concerns you? Just want to make sure I have my story straight. If you don't trust Major Zhou or Captain Wang because of their previous positions in the People's Liberation Army Air Force, then that needs to be dealt with. Can't have my officers running around sleeping with knives under their pillows." There was an art to sarcasm. Use it too subtly to a subordinate and you might not get your point across. There was no danger of that in this conversation

"Alright, alright, you've made your point, sir," Corthock held up his hands in surrender.

"I know your brother got shot down in the Taiwan Incident..."

"Incident?" Corthock raised an eyebrow. "Don't piss in my ear and tell me it's raining, sir. The Reds broke the ceasefire, attacked our patrols and shot down four ASF's. President Rayner should have let us return the favour."

"I was at the Pentagon, Bill." Joaquim reminded the younger man. "Yeah, we could have beaten the Chinese in twenty four hours, but we couldn't have done it without inflicting huge amounts of civilian casualties on Taiwan and the Chinese mainland. Rayner was smart; he used it as a bargaining tool. We got the Reds to back off and secured the trade concessions that we wanted. Without that cash, we wouldn't have had the funding to start up here on Shanxi. If you ever want that Admiral's star, you're gonna have to look at the bigger picture more often."

The former US Navy pilot merely grunted. "If you say so sir. Guess I can't complain about Zhou's efficiency. He does twice as much paperwork as all the others. His squadron's in fairly good shape too."

"That's the spirit!" Joaquim clapped Bill on the shoulder. "Now, tell me about what I just saw."

"It's called a Mass Accelerator Cannon," Bill cheered up immediately. "MAC for short. Essentially a miniaturised, fast firing version of the big guns the navy uses on their ships. Admiral Grissom is advocating employing them in place of regular ballistic weapons. You'd have to shrink the firing mechanism down a lot, but you'd have the best rifle in the world when you were done."

"Think it'll ever happen?"

"Maybe in ten years. We've started fitting some of the prototypes on ASF's as replacements for the old Gatling twenty mike mikes. But I don't think you could compress a mass driver system into a rifle. Not yet anyway."

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**GARRISON BASE 'ECHO'**

**TWENTY KILOMETRES FROM OUTREACH CITY**

**15****TH**** AERIAL COMBAT SQUADRON**

"**THE RED SPARROWS"**

"Good morning Major, rather nice shoot up," Flight Lieutenant Alistair, former Royal Air Force, extended a gentlemanly hand to aid his commanding officer in her descent from the cockpit.

Placing her petite, gloved fingers in his palm, Tanya dropped onto the tarmac. She patted the side of her ASF affectionately. "She handles like a dream Alistair, much better than the MIG."

"She's a beauty all right," Alistair appreciatively examined both of the sleek forms before him. "Would you care for some coffee, ma'am?"

"Just one, I'm going up again later, and I don't want to be shaky," Tanya removed her flight helmet, allowing her untidy red locks to dangle out with abandon. "We're running a stealth test with Dagger Squadron."

"Is it really worth all this training, ma'am?" Alistair had been required to leave a fiancé and a vintage Aston Martin behind when he had been seconded to the Systems Alliance from his comfortable billet in Glasgow. He naturally resented the decision, but not overly so. The twenty six year old was not particularly ambitious or skilful (probably the reason for his selection for a lonely far-colony deployment), but he was a decent pilot and a friendly man to talk to. Tanya decided not to take the same hardline with him that she might have with another officer who felt like skipping training.

"_Tovarisch_, our drills are bloodless battles, are they not? Training must build our skills so we are ready for when our battles become bloody drills."

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**MCNAMARA FIRING RANGE**

Sergeant Norman Alenko slapped another magazine into his ICWS and sighted back on the target. Gently squeezing the trigger, he sent the 9.5mm All Purpose Rounds downrange at the computer generated targets. The **I**ndividual **C**ombat **W**eapons **S**ystem was accurate up to seven hundred yards, and Norman's targets were at the standard four hundred yard mark. A playground shot for an experienced marksman, and Norman was a _very_ experienced marksman.

"Great shot, Canuck!" Sergeant Bob McDevitt slapped Norman on the back. "It's like you can't miss!"

"Well, shooting's pretty easy when you stop breathing tobacco smoke and concentrate on the damn target," Norman flicked Bob's lit cigarette out of his teeth and stomped it out on the ground. "You're up."

The two NCOs were entirely different people, and yet, so similar in many ways. Bob was a certified whiskey swilling redneck from the deepest parts of Alabama. Norman was a soft skinned, soft spoken baby face, born and raised in uptown Vancouver. Bob was a devout Christian, despite his language and habits, and could be found at the base chapel every Sunday morning. Norman was agnostic, open to the idea of religion, but not convinced by it. Bob frequently drank himself under the table, Norman was only a moderate drinker.

And yet, they gelled easily when paired together, one totally compatible with the other. They shared a love of hunting, both having been introduced to the sport as boys. Bob had taken down his first deer at age eight, Norman had done the same to a moose at age seven. Though their drinking habits differed, they liked the same kind of liquor. They had an eye for the same kind of women, and both were completely committed to their jobs. It was the kind of bond only soldiers shared. One of mutual respect, trust and admiration that just couldn't be duplicated without a uniform, a set of boots and a lot of guns to go along with it.

That's not to say they didn't clash. Bob took an unnatural delight in mocking nearly everything about Norman's home town. Hockey, maple syrup, Norman's Canadian drawl, Bob thought up a new one every day. Norman's response? Simply remind Bob which of their grandfather's had been on the winning side during the Second American Civil War. Still a sore subject to residents of Texas, New Mexico, Arkansas, Alabama and the twelve other states that had been thrashed during the senseless, violent, three year conflict from 2097 to 2100, Bob would sulk about it for hours.

Picking up his own rifle, Bob clicked the safety off, chambered a round and began shooting. He was good. Just as good as Norman. Alenko and McDevitt had been forced to share the Division's shooting trophy for the two years they had been stationed on Shanxi.

"Easy work," Bob observed, lowering his rifle. "You know Dugson?"

"Over in Charlie Company?" Norman decided to work on his pistol. Removing the Lowell Armoury Heavy Combat Pistol from his holster, he adopted a two handed Weaver stance and re-activated the program. The HCP was chambered for a short version of the heavy .50 cal round. It was either the world's largest pistol or smallest rifle, no one had yet figured out which. His sidearm forced itself up with every shot. If not for the recoil dampers, he would have put bruises all over his palms.

"Yeah, you know him," Bob reloaded. "Got one of the new prototype sniper rifles. Uses a mass accelerator to propel his shots. Best muzzle velocity of any weapon ever invented."

"Worth replacing the Buzzard?" Norman referred to the standard issue Long Distance Rifle, a beast of a weapon, chambered in .600. The famed Gunnery Sergeant Carl Dugson had used it to break the world's long distance sniping record, taking out an insurgent at almost three miles in the Afghanistan Neutral Zone.

"Not really, he's gotta manually reload it after every shot. Nice toy though." Bob laconically checked his watch. "Not to through your aim off, but isn't it about nine o'clock in Vancouver right now?"

"Son of a bitch," Norman looked at his watch. "Can we pause this?"

"Nope, you leave now, you forfeit the match," Bob lit another cigarette. "Pity."

Norman hesitated, gazing up at the scoreboard. He was ahead ten points. But he'd promised...

"You know what, Bob?" Norman grinned, pulling out his credit chit. "I forfeit. Because I'm going to wish my son happy birthday."

As Norman took off up the stairs, Bob counted up his winnings. Fifty credits, standard win from a grudge match. "Hey, Norm?"

"Yeah?" Sergeant Alenko turned at the top of the stairs, looking back down to the firing range.

"Tell Kaidan that Uncle Bob said high."

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"General Williams, you have a call coming in from New York." Corporal Henkshaw handed Joaquim a stack of files as he entered his office. The structure was actually better quality than most of the pre-fabs that made up the barracks for the marines. Central heating, some tasteful decorations, and a real leather armchair that someone had smuggled in on the last supply bird.

"Not Admiral Drescher again," the General chuckled. "I don't think I can survive another budget conference."

"No sir, it's from Long Island Barracks, your son is on the line."

"Well, I'll be damned," Williams took his place on the opposite side of his genuine mahogany desk, a small affectation that he had carried with him from his appointment at the Pentagon, back when he had been a Colonel with the United North American States Army. "Put him through, Corporal."

"Yes sir."

The vid screen went blank for a few seconds, then Franklin Benjamin Williams appeared on it. =Hey Dad. Got a question for you. How do you feel about being a grandfather?=

Joaquim was taken aback by the question. "Well, I don't feel old enough for it, but I take it I don't have a choice in the matter?"

=Correct= His son gave a shy shrug. =Sally confirmed it at the base hospital this morning. She's two weeks pregnant=

"Congratulations son!" Williams burst out laughing. "I thought that training would leave you too exhausted to get any real work done."

=Signals intelligence is tough, but it's not _that_ tough= The Private First Class responded. Like his father, Frank was spending some time in the UNAS Regular Army before he joined the new Systems Alliance Marine Corps. His IQ tests had given him a very high score with which to select his specialisation. He had chosen combat communications. It was a good field to go into, offered plenty of opportunities for an eventual officer's commission.

"You thought about names yet?"

=Sally likes 'Ashley' if it's a girl, I'm in favour of 'Madeline'. If it's a boy, well, 'Joaquim' is a pretty good name for a boy, isn't it?=

"I'm flattered," Joaquim leaned forward. " But why not put the first two together? 'Ashley Madeline Williams'. Sounds like a soldier's name."

=Not a chance. Never in a thousand years would I permit any daughter of mine to hang around with a bunch of bootnecks like you and me=

"That's how your grandfather felt when I married you mother," Joaquim replied smugly. "But I married her anyway."

=To her eternal regret= Frank delivered a well placed elbow in the ribs, all the way from Earth.

"A telling hit, it seems my son has grown up."

"Your son had a good father to show him the way."

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"Happy Birthday!" Norman almost shouted as soon as Kaidan poked his head into view. The face of his curly haired six year old immediately broke into a joyful, childhood smile. "How's my boy?"

=I'm fine Daddy= Kaidan jumped up and down. =Look what Auntie Rachel gave me? A real combat uniform to wear to bed!=

Norman grinned as he saw the grey and black Disruptive Pattern coloured pyjamas. "Well, you look pretty cool in that. Just like me."

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Colonel Matthias Pressly regarded his grandson, Serviceman 2nd Class Thomas Pressly, with the same stony eyed intensity that he would use on a raw recruit.

"B6."

"Dammit!" The Colonel exploded. "You sunk my dreadnaught."

"That's how it goes, old man," the youngest Pressly had a shit eating grin plastered all over his face. "That's sixteen to zero, right?"

"Yep," Matthias closed down the second window on his screen. "You're getting damn near telepathic with this shit. You sure you weren't eyed for extra sensory perception warfare?"

"I don't think ESP was in the list of qualifications for junior navigation aide," Thomas shrugged. "The _Agincourt _is a pretty good ship. Navigator Coffer's teaching me a lot of stuff. I'm the new guy, but I'm doing pretty well."

"Still time to back out and join the Marines?" Matthias half heartedly offered.

"You know I don't want that, Grandpa," Thomas shook his head. "I joined to do something worthwhile...but I'm not cut out for fighting. Navigation...it's what I want to do."

"I guess I can understand that," Colonel Pressly nodded. "Hey, you know I'm proud of you, right? You joining up with the Alliance, volunteering for a deep space assignment, all of it. After what happened to your father..."

"Hey, Dad died doing what he loved," Thomas held up his hand. "I thought you stopped blaming yourself for that?"

"I have, it's just...never mind," Matthias forced a smile. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Sure," Thomas reached for the power down switch. "I better get some sleep before Coffer busts my balls again."

"Hey, I love you kid."

"Love you too Pops."

Matthias stared at the vidscreen after it had shut down. Seeing young blood like his grandson finding their niche in the world...it made him feel his age. At sixty four, he was the oldest officer in the division. If he was still with the UNAS Army, he would have been forcibly retired by now. But the Alliance was desperate enough to recruit practically anyone with command experience to the undermanned garrison divisions.

He began thinking about his retirement house back on Earth. Maybe he'd put in a garden when he got back.

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"...can't stay on for much longer," Norman glanced at the clock. He had exceeded communications privileges for the day. Once he got that Staff Sergeant's position, he'd be able to use a private terminal...but not yet. "Hey, we'll talk again tomorrow. Colonel Pressly thinks he can free up some space over in the family barracks area. Then you could come out here and live with me again, how does that sound?"

"Great," Kaidan began jumping up and down again. Norman wondered where children got enough energy for their relentless activity. His son paused for a second. "I mean, I like living with Auntie Rachel and Uncle Ben, but I want to live with you more."

Norman felt exactly the same way. Kaidan wasn't just his son, he was all Norman had left of his wife.

Lily Alenko, formerly Lily Roberts. She and Norman had been childhood sweethearts. Cheesy? Yes. Cliché? Most definitely. But they had been happy together. He went off to boot camp, she went off to college. When they met three years later, they picked up right where they left off. A few months later, they were married. A few months after that, Lily was pregnant.

The assignment to Singapore had been surprising, but not unpleasant. As a married Corporal with the UNAS Marine Corps, Norman had never had the sufficient funds to take Lily on a proper honeymoon. Singapore had been utterly exotic...the extra pay hadn't hurt their plans for the future either.

The accident had changed all of that. A broken down orbital transport that exploded halfway through it's landing cycle. Half of Singapore had been drenched in Element Zero radiation. Those that didn't die immediately were often diagnosed with cancer a few months later. Lily had been one of the unlucky ones.

Two months before the baby was due, a doctor had confirmed a malignant tumour growing around Lily's cerebral cortex. He had predicted she would die within the month. But she had been made of much sterner stuff than the doctor thought. Norman had watched his wife slowly waste away, the cancer spreading too far and too fast for any of the thousand effective treatments to work. She had lived long enough to survive a painful childbirth, and hold her son one time before she finally expired.

Norman had been left alone, faced with the prospect of raising a child without a mother, and in a foreign country. He had tackled the job with gusto, moving back to Vancouver, transferring to the Reserves, and working in his brother-in-law's construction company to pay the bills. He'd done his best for three years, and done fairly well, with the help of his sisters.

Eventually, the seductive call of the military had lured him back in again. Still a young man, he was attracted to the romanticism and promise of the new Systems Alliance Marine Corps. Leaving Kaidan with his family, Norman had joined up, and spent two years on a frigate, before transferring to Shanxi.

He had missed a Christmas, and two of Kaidan's birthdays. That was going to change. Shanxi had grown a lot in the past few years. Several of the married Marines had moved their families out to Shanxi, where the air was clear, and over-population was unheard of. Norman wanted that for his son. Vancouver was a beautiful city, but it was still a city. Norman's grandfather had taken him out to the distant countryside so many times. Norman's father had been an accountant, too busy with life to really live it. Norman wasn't going to make that mistake. He'd be like his grandfather, teaching his son to shoot and hunt, help him with his study, and be around to give him advice on girls. The greatest adventure of all...but Norman would have to catch up a little first.

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**A/N: I assure you, my dates are accurate. Kaidan was born six years before the First Contact War, Ashley was born the year **_**after**_** the FCW.**

**Next chapter, Colonel Pressly and General Williams have a little talk, and then we meet our first turians.**


	3. First Contact

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Three: First Contact

I don't own Bioware

**HIERARCHY NAVAL VESSEL**

_**RAPTOR'S FURY**_

**COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE**

**ON ROUTINE PATROL**

**APPROACHING DORMANT RELAY 314**

Captain Fautan Xiliatus was considered by many to be the greatest navigator in the Hierarchy Navy. It was not a compliment lightly given, nor had it been awarded in jest. Xiliatus should never have become a captain, let alone a navigator or even an officer. For a turian born as a bareface, life was rarely kind. Fautan's father had been a proud member of the Ta'Shira tribe, the Honoured Grey Skulls. Their red markings had struck fear into the hearts of many enemies, near and far.

Fautan had no idea what had made his father go into voluntary exile...well maybe some idea, but nothing for certain. He had been tempted many times to investigate and find the truth for himself, but always held back. He liked to imagine that his father had accepted exile for some noble cause...and not because he had killed a Primarch's son in an illegal duel, as was the rumour.

His father had found refuge with other exiles and separatists, putting off his tattoos and bonding with a fellow exile. Fautan had been born from that union. An exile through no choice of his own, rendered honourless without a chance to proof his worth, made an outcast by centuries of tradition, tradition that demanded a turian mark himself to show his allegiance. Fautan had learned this early, learned that he had to fight three times as hard, work three times as long, and be three times as honourable, if only to avoid suspicion.

At age fourteen, he had enlisted in the Hierarchy Navy, a volunteer rather than a conscript. The commanding officer of the frigate _Corixan _had been somewhat impressed by this, and instead of sending him to the galley (the common task for untrustworthy barefaces), had assigned him to the honourable (if inglorious) task of calibrating the navigation computers.

Fautan had performed his duties with alacrity, efficiency and diligence for almost two years. He had even been made watch commander. Calibrating the navigation equipment had given him the opportunity to befriend the ship's pilot. Amused by his enthusiasm, Lieutenant Pirav had given him informal instruction, allowing Fautan to pass the junior navigation exam. This earned him a promotion, a pay raise of sixty credits per month, and the (theoretical) ability to pilot a light frigate. Not that the Hierarchy would ever permit a bareface to hold such a position.

Fautan's opportunity had come about because of a tragedy. The _Corixan _had been ambushed by krogan and asari pirates. Crippled and boarded, with the whole navigation array shot to pieces, things had been hopeless. But Fautan had not lost hope. He seized a rifle and fought alongside his captain, driving back the boarders. With Lieutenant Pirav dead, and auto-navigation offline, Fautan had manually plotted a course, and guided the _Corixan_ into the closest mass relay on one thruster.

That particular incident had earned Fautan the respect of his peers and superiors. Awarded a battlefield commission, Fautan had been promoted to the post of Chief Navigator of the _Keisi_. For ten years, he had served on a dozen different ships. On each one, his raw navigational genius, fair treatment of those under his command, combined with his bravery in combat, earned him the respect of those he served with. Even so, he would never have been given a ship of his own...

...had not his first captain on the _Corixan_ been made Primarch of the Filok Legions. The new Primarch had wondered aloud why a navigator and leader as skilled as Sub-Commander Xiliatus was still only a half-captain.

Upon his promotion to Captain, Fautan had been offered his choice of commands. Anything from heavy patrol cruisers, down to light, fast corvettes could have been his to command. Fautan had requested the HNV _Raptor's Fury_, a worn cruiser with a reputation for being almost indestructible. Some had laughed at his choice. The _Fury _was an old ship, used as a dumping ground for those too old, too stupid, or too insolent to be much use anywhere else.

That was exactly why Fautan had chosen it. The _Fury _was like him, as were the crew. They could still achieve great things, they just needed someone who cared enough to bring them to their full potential.

The first thing he had done when taking command of the _Fury_ was to grant immediate, extended shore leave to his crew. While they enjoyed themselves on the Citadel, Fautan sought out the necessary funding to give the _Fury_ a full refit.

When the engineers were finished, the old girl looked almost brand new. A refreshed crew had eagerly taken to their new training regimen. The changes were small at first. The guards stood a little straighter, the gunners became a fraction more accurate, the engineers began spending extra time on their daily maintenance. Fautan demanded, and received, a hell of a lot more.

Within a year, the _Fury _won itself a reputation as the most efficient ship in the whole navy. In two years, Admiral Jhirx and Primarch Togab began rotating Fautan's crewmembers to ships where their expertise and discipline were needed, sending fresh batches of recruits and mavericks to the fleet's informally appointed drillmaster.

Fautan's star was once again in the ascendant. Admiral Jhirx would be stepping down as Admiral of the Far Watching Fleet, and accepting a position as Senior Advisor on Border Security to the Council of Primarchs. Fautan wasn't so ambitious as to hope that he would replace the Admiral, not straight away. But Jhirx had explained that a new position had opened up on the Citadel for a two stripe admiral. Fautan wouldn't be getting that post either. Barefaces didn't get to mingle with the upper classes, unless you were rich enough to buy yourself respectability.

No, Fautan's hope was for Eighth Squadron, replacing Quarter Admiral Djav after he took the post on the Citadel. That would be a real command, with eight cruisers, seventeen frigates...and a dreadnaught for a flagship. An old dreadnaught, but still massive and powerful enough to be worthy of the name. That would be Fautan's reward for his lifetime of service, and a fitting stepping stone on his path to the top. A dreadnaught would be his last real command before he ascended to a staff position. He might be fortunate enough to get a fleet command at a later date, but that would be over hundreds of vessels, not one that he could specifically call his own.

Of course, once he made flag rank, he would be required to swear his allegiance to a clan, and mark himself with warpaint. While tradition frowned on barefaces serving on active duty, written law forbade them from holding any senior leadership post. Swearing himself away did not particularly appeal to Fautan, but it didn't seem like an unacceptable option either. A dozen admirals and Primarchs had hinted that should he choose to apply for membership in any clan he desired (namely theirs), there would be no obstacle for his acceptance.

And that was how Fautan found himself once more on the bridge of the _Raptor's Fury_, on what would probably be his final deep space patrol. His crew was a mixed lot, old hands combined with fresh recruits.

The recruits had shown themselves eager, making up for their inexperience with bounding enthusiasm. They were itching for a fight, hoping that some pirate would try his luck, and give the recruits a chance to win glory for themselves and their clans. Fatan understood and appreciated their desire, but he did not share it. A nice, peaceful tour would suit him perfectly.

"We're forty minutes out from Relay 314," Navigation Lieutenant Aeschylus reported. "Anyone want to take any bets that it's still as dull, dormant and boring as ever?"

Sub-Commander Tutmos growled his agreement. "I am all for securing our borders, but 314 doesn't have any Prothean technology worth stealing."

"Never underestimate amateur asari archaeologists," Fautan gently broke up the conversation. "All we need to do is make sure that no one is interfering with the no fly zone, or trying to reactivate it."

"Who would even want to reactivate a dormant relay?" Tutmos frowned. "It is forbidden, and for good reason. We can't risk another conflict like the Rachni War."

"Just because we follow the rules, doesn't mean that everyone else does," Fautan reminded him. "Better to be cautious and wise..."

"...for these are the keys to victory," Tutmos finished the mantra of the Palaven Officer Academy. "Understood sir."

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**SSV **_**LEYTE GULF**_

_**TALEVERA-**_**CLASS FRIGATE**

**STATION KEEPING OFF PROJECT **_**OUTBOUND**_

**JUNE 7****TH****, 2157**

Staff Commander John DiMisso was young for his rank, and it showed. A graduate of the UNAS Naval Academy at Annapolis, John's education had been in sea warfare, training as a navigation officer. Upon graduation, he had been assigned to the UNASS _John Paul Jones_, a guided missile frigate in the 1st Pacific Fleet. His career had been uneventful, but he had earned a reputation as an eager, smart, and honest young officer.

When the fledgling Systems Alliance Navy sent out a call for personnel, Lieutenant Junior Grade DiMisso had been recommended for selection. Two years had seen him retrained as the helmsman of the SSV _Peleliu_. Instead of the deep blue waters of the Pacific Ocean, John found himself navigating the deep black waters of space.

A crippling shortage of trained officers also ensured John a swift ascension up the chain of command. By the time he turned twenty five, Staff Lieutenant DiMisso was Chief Helmsman, Chief Navigation Officer, and Executive Officer of the _Peleliu._ When the _Peleliu_ had gone in for a refit, John had been bumped up to Lieutenant Commander and reassigned as Commanding Officer of the _Leyte Gulf_, the newest frigate in the 2nd Fleet.

Project OUTBOUND, the Alliance's bold scheme to reactivate a dormant Mass Relay two systems outside of the colony on Shanxi, had seen DiMisso receive another promotion, only twenty seven years old. His diplomatic skills had been necessary for the joint military and civilian venture. Captain Frank Grimes was an extrovert and a bully, but his genius with mass effect technology could not be denied. DiMisso's responsibility was to make sure the commander of the _Astral Skimmer_ was kept happy and productive. It was a task that cost him very little physical effort, but hours upon hours of mental anguish.

John was not one of those fools who were fascinated by the beauty of space. For him, space was boring, long expanses of black, punctuated by occasional bursts of colour, and slightly frightening vastness that never ended. But he loved his job. The challenge of leading men and navigating the frightful distances appealed to the romantic side of his personality. The rapid career path didn't hurt either. Back on Earth, he might have made Lieutenant Commander, maybe have command of a tiny corvette, more likely being a department head on an aircraft carrier, or XO to a frigate or destroyer captain. He liked having his own command.

_Talavera-_class vessels were frigates in name only. Their real task was fleet support, to aid the massive dreadnaughts and heavy cruiser squadrons in massive engagements, when firepower and manoeuvrability had to be combined in a reckless, yet elegant ballet. The _Leyte Gulf _was the third one ever produced. It outgunned every other vessel of its tonnage and classification in the Alliance. Multiple torpedo launchers, and the most advanced GARDIAN laser suite mankind had ever built, made it almost as heavily armed as a light cruiser. She lacked only a heavy Mass Accelerator Canon to complete her arsenal, and not even the cleverest shipyard could figure out a way to shrink the heaviest weapon in the Alliance down to frigate size.

"Captain Grimes is online sir...again," Ensign Hobbs, the Comms Officer, growled out the bad news as his console beep. "Shall I patch him through?

"Is there any way we can fake another systems overhaul?" Staff Lieutenant Westernberg, the Executive Officer and Weapons Officer, deadpanned.

"After the last fifty?" Helmsman Littler laughed. "I don't think we can keep that fat..."

"Alright!" DiMisso cut off his pilot's latest off colour shot at the Merchant Navy captain. "Hobbes, put him on."

=Commander= Grimes appeared on the _Leyte's_ view screen. White haired, well into his seventies, and with a heaving beer belly, Grimes had been the Chief Engineer on the second manned ship to go through the Charon Relay. By rights, he should have been as famous as Admiral Grissom. Instead, he had been ignored, passed over in the massive rush to expand into space. His name was in the history books...but only at the back. Project OUTBOUND was his baby, his last shot at glory before he simply got too old to travel to the far reaches of Alliance space. He was also a sarcastic bastard who enjoyed making John's life miserable.=Thank you for allowing me the honour of finally addressing you=

_Too bad,_ John reflected. _Too bad that somebody didn't write a nice, big book about him. Would have saved me a trip all the way out here._

"Not a problem," John forced a polite smile onto his face. "Something you need?"

=Just wondering if you would like to be known as the first Alliance Navy officer to traverse a previously dormant relay?= Grimes puffed his chest out, his tone suddenly magnanimous.

John's heart leapt. "You've done it?"

=Almost= Grimes was smiling. =The technology is amazing, but very similar to what we found on Charon. We've found a way to re-activate the core. We'll have it back online in ten minutes. But all other vessels except the _Skimmer _should stand off. We have our simulations about what will happen once it comes online, and they suggest that computer systems might be affected by the initial power up=

"Agreed," John nodded. "Once its online, we have orders to monitor it for at least seven days before we enter."

=I've read the protocol, Commander= Grimes smile turned into a scowl. =Written by over-cautious fools at Arcturus. You can't destroy a relay, not with a thousand tons of C5=

"Nevertheless, those are the rules," DiMisso gently prodded. "We have to follow them, even when we know better."

Grimes frown deepened. John could almost hear him ranting: _Boy, while you were still going to the 'right schools', serving on the 'right ships', and kissing the right admiral's ass, I was on the team that catapulted mankind to the far reaches of the galaxy._

=Have it your way= Grimes looked to the side. =Grimes out=

"Fun guy," Hobbs leaned back in her chair. "Gonna get his name in the history books, but what do the rest of us get? Anyone gonna remember Ensign Clarissa Hobbs? Who bravely manned her telephone exchange as this epic quest was undertaken?"

"Or Staff Lieutenant Harry Westernberg?" The XO bemoaned along with her. "Who watched his guns rust from lack of use?"

"Or Lieutenant Carl Littler..." The pilot began.

"No one cares about Littler," Hobbs pointed out.

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"Sir?" Aeschylus looked up from his console. "My scanners are picking up something. You might want to see this."

"What is it?" Fautan made it a point to tour his command centre every hour. Turian ships had a different build from the asari and salarians. The star chart, tactics and weapons stations were at the base of the long 'neck' of the ship, with the cockpit and navigation consoles at the front. If nothing else, walking up and down the bridge gave the _Fury's_ CO a decent amount of exercise. "Pirates?"

"Pirates wouldn't worry me in the slightest," the helmsman's mandibles flared. "I'm picking up multiple engine signatures, all clustered around 314."

"That's nothing new," Tutmos came up beside them. "Back when I was on the _Calyx_, we caught some asari maidens having a party around 712. Turns out, dormant relays make for a hell of a party setting. Captain gave us a day of shoreleave with them. Those girls knew how to have a good time."

"Please don't flaunt your sexual deviances on the bridge," Fautan growled, affectionately slapping Tutmos on the back of his fringe. The XO was a good soldier, Fautan considered him a brother, but he did have a weakness for asari.

"Aye sir," Tutmos accepted the rebuke good naturedly. "Back to our 'glorious mission'. What worries you, Helmsman?"

"Their energy signatures aren't asari," Aeschylus finally spoke. "Not salarian either. I've run them against everything in the database. Batarian, krogan, quarian, volus, elcor...nothing matches."

Fautan was instantly alert. "First contact?"

"It's a possibility," Aeschylus looked back. "Uninitiated species have a record of attempted activation. What do we do?"

Fautan had to make a decision. Proceed with peaceful initiation, and send for a mediation team from the Citadel...or take decisive action to prevent the illegal activation of a relay. "What's our ETA?"

"At current speed? Twenty minutes."

"Increase to maximum velocity. Tutmos, tell communications to send a broad beam transmission to those ships. Use every frequency, use every language the computer knows."

"Sir, the translator doesn't work like that. It needs a full dictionary and lexicon, as well as a syntax sample..."

"JUST DO IT!" Fautan roared. "We're trying to prevent an inter-galactic incident! Maybe we'll get lucky."

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"Well, would you look at that," Littler whispered as it began.

The rings of the relay began to spin, a glowing blue light growing in the centre. A shining beacon in the empty blackness of space.

"A thousand years that thing's been silent." Even Hobbs was struck by the moment. "And we make it shine in less than a week."

"Alright," DiMisso resisted the urge to get caught up in the euphoria. "Hobbs, get in contact with Grimes. Tell him to get his gear together and get ready to leave. Maybe we can get back to Shanxi before the Officer's Club shuts."

"Roger that sir," Hobbs cheerfully pinged the _Astral Skimmer_. "Seems a shame to wait a week to make history."

"We've already made history," John strode back to his command chair. He could see a Captain's stripe dangling in front of him. "In a week, we write it."

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"Sir, we have a confirmed signal from the relay." The first hints of apprehension appeared in the navigator's eyes. "These..._idiots_ have activated it."

"Have they travelled through it?" Fautan didn't dare hope for anything.

"No sir. They appear to be waiting."

"Then maybe there's still a chance..." Fautan pondered the situation. His duty was clear. Activation of a dormant relay was a capital offence. The Rachni Wars had shown that reactivating the sleeping gateways was a sure path to disaster. "All hands to battle stations! Load the guns! Lancers will stand to, and prepare to board! We will try and drive them off, and shut that relay down!"

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=Commander DiMisso!= Grimes boomed as the _Astral Skimmer_'s bridge came into view. =A great day!=

"A very great day," DiMisso agreed. "I trust you remember our orders?"

=Aye, of course= The old man winked. =Of course, if I strayed too close to the relay and accidentally jumped through, I'm sure the Admiralty would forgive me=

"Captain!" John protested. "You can't..."

=Don't you worry yourself, Commander= Grimes was grinning from ear to ear. =I'll be back in five minutes=

"But..." Before DiMisso could fully process Grimes' duplicity, the glory hungry civilian cut the channel. "Damn him!"

"What do we do, sir?" Westernberg looked at him uncertainly. "Take out his engines?"

"And permanently piss off the boys in R&D?" John snorted. "Let him have his glory. He'll get a tongue lashing from Admiral Drescher and Admiral Grissom, and that'll be it. Maybe we'll..."

"SIR!" Hobbs swivelled on her chair. "You're not going to believe this!"

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It were possible for turians to pale, like thin skinned asari and salarians, then Tutmos would have turned white. "Sir, that ship..."

"...is on an approach course. I am not blind!" Fautan snapped. He had one option. Protocol, law, and honour were all screaming at him to act. He was about to open fire on an ignorant, uninitiated species. Smart enough to activate a relay, but too reckless to realise the risk of their actions. Fautan could not permit another incident like the Rachni Wars. Citadel regulations had been established for this very occasion. His duty was clear.

"Lock torpedoes and fire!"

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"Sir, I'm telling you, that ship doesn't match any known profiles," Hobbs had the barest strains of fear in her voice. "It's cruiser size, has a massive power signature and I'm reading plasma signatures all over the hull. Whatever she is, she's got weapons, and plenty of them."

"Tell Commander Leichardt and the _Lepanto_ to standby," DiMisso decided instantly. "Get the civilian ships ready to bug out on my mark. Could be independent pirates with a..."

"Weapons discharge!" Westernberg snarled. "Torpedoes inbound!"

"Raise kinetic barriers, prepare to return fire!" John turned toward the weapons console. "I want plasma torpedoes targeting their engines. All hands will brace for impact..."

"They're not coming at us!" Littler yelled. "They're shooting at the _Skimmer_! The bastards are shooting at the civilians!"

"Comm Grimes, tell him to break off and run!"

"I'm trying!" Hobbs raced her fingers over her interface. "The channels are all full, I can't get a signal. I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologise!" DiMisso turned on her. "JUST DO IT!"

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The _Astral Skimmer_ was doomed from the second the turian vessel fired. As it approached the relay, two plasma torpedoes struck it amidships. The science ship was not a military vessel. It had navigational barriers to protect it against small asteroid showers, weak shields that would not have stopped a swarm of angry bees.

The first torpedo went straight through, putting a neat hole through the upper hull and out through the lower. The _Skimmer_ jumped like a startled deer, wildly venting atmosphere. The second torpedo struck further along the hull, penetrating the eezo core and nicking the fuel cells. The highly volatile mixture of Element Zero and liquid fuel coexisted for six mili-seconds before it alighted.

The _Skimmer _was consumed by the burning, angry beast of fire, flaring only briefly in the cold vacuum of space, but blazing hot enough to disintegrate its hull and most of the crew. Those 'fortunate' enough to be wearing vac-sealed suits were thrown clear by the blast, free to die slowly of oxygen deprivation once their rebreathers failed.

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"She's gone..." Littler stared in shock at the wreckage drifting from the relay, like wisps of cloud tossed by a strong wind. "They blew her up..."

=DiMisso!= Commander Leichardt's voice shook the bridge crew back into action. =What the hell is going on?=

"No idea," DiMisso was numb. "Get the rest of the civilians back to Shanxi, tell the General to prepare for a fight."

=No way I'm leaving you...=

"This isn't a democracy!" DiMisso almost bellowed. "I gave you a direct order. Now get the fuck out of here!"

The line remained silent for a few seconds. =Understood. Good luck John=

DiMisso looked out the window of the bridge. There she was. Less than five hundred kilometres away, the magnification made her look much closer. Like a huge bird of prey, she hung in space, silent and menacing.

"Littler?" John's mouth was dry. "Take us in. Westernberg, is a firing solution locked?"

"Aye sir." The Staff Lieutenant bit his lip softly.

"Well then?" The Commander forced a smile onto his face. "Shall we?"

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There is no sound in vacuum. No trumpets or bugles could sound a charge, no screams of the wounded could cross the place of battle. It was cold, impersonal, inhuman.

As the _Leyte Gulf _closed with the _Raptor's Fury_, there were many thoughts and feelings on both sides. Fear and determination flooded the human ship, while the turians possessed a guilty confidence in their ability to crush these insolent newcomers.

And like two Titans, clashing for dominance, humans and turians met in combat. And so began the war.


	4. Day of Infamy

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Four: Day of Infamy

I don't own BioWare

**COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE**

**SSV LEYTE GULF**

**JUNE 7****TH****, 2157**

"Direct hit!" Westernberg crowed. "Torpedoes hit her engines, sir."

"Damage assessment?" DiMisso saw the brief flash of his primary weapons.

"Minimal, sir," Littler banked to avoid the return fire of the enemy cruiser. "She has full barriers, we barely even scratched them."

"Take us up and over," John gripped the handrail next to the pilot's chair as an enemy torpedo glanced off the _Leyte's_ lower deck barriers. "Harry! I want another salvo ready to go. And why aren't my GARDIANs firing?"

"Their first torpedo scrambled the circuits," the XO steadied himself as the _Leyte_ shook from another impact. "We have no GARDIAN systems still operating."

"Fuck this!" Hobbs wiped a trickle of blood away from the corner of her mouth. "We can't beat this thing. I don't wanna die here!"

"Pull yourself together," DiMisso watched four more torpedoes strike the flank of the alien cruiser. "We need to give the Lepanto and the civilians time to get clear. This bastard's barriers can't last forever."

Littler winced as an explosion rocked the vessel. A damage control alarm blared on his screen. "Well, for all our sakes, I hope they run out of barrier power before we run out of torpedoes."

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**HIERARCHY NAVAL VESSEL **_**RAPTOR'S FURY**_

**COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE**

"These primitives are smarter than they look," Fautan growled as the barrier power levels of his cruiser dropped suddenly. "High yield torpedoes. An adequate substitute for an MAC."

"Especially when we can't get a lock for our own main gun," Sub-Commander Tutmos waved a cloud of smoke away from his face. One of the consoles had shattered under the transferred kinetic force, producing a shower of sparks and temporarily inconveniencing the gunnery crews. "They dodge around like salarians."

"We have tactics to deal with salarians," Aeschylus began a slow role, allowing the ventral torpedo launchers to sight on the alien ship. "Sir, I have an idea."

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"Hey, boss? I think I got something," Littler pulled the _Leyte _into a bone shaking turn, dodging the newest wave of torpedoes. "That thing's as slow as shit when she turns. If you take down its barriers, then I can put us in a prime firing position behind her aft exhaust port."

"How many shots we got left?" DiMisso glanced at Westernberg. The Staff Lieutenant checked his console.

"Magazines for the forward batteries are almost spent. Ventral magazines are still mostly full."

"Reroute the loading systems, transfer torpedoes from the ventral magazines to the forward torpedo launchers." DiMisso slapped Littler on the back. "And give them another volley!"

Space naval warfare had very little in common with its ancient definition. It had nothing whatsoever to do with ancient, triple decked, wooden ships blasting at each other with short ranged cannon. The principles were similar to the massive gunfights between whole fleets on the oceans of Earth. Hit the enemy. Don't get hit yourself. In its application it bore more resemblance to a dogfight between fighters, albeit, on a massive scale.

In the early days of intergalactic warfare, frigates had a significant advantage over heavy cruisers and dreadnaughts. Being smaller, but still possessing significant hitting power, they could dance around the dangerous heavy guns of capital ships and strike them at their weakest points.

The advent of GARDIAN systems had eliminated this flaw. Strategically placed torpedo launchers had turned the flaw into a strength. The best a frigate could hope for if it got past the heavy guns was a long, slow death at the hands of its opponent's secondary weapons. DiMisso knew this, and knew just how screwed he was unless he could find a way to turn the tide...

...and in his haste to turn said tide, he badly underestimated his opponent.

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"Our barriers are down in quadrant four," the damage control officer called over the sound of battle klaxons. "Enemy ship is closing fast."

"Wait until the last possible moment," Fautan ordered calmly. "Reel them in."

"It's a pity," Tutmos observed. "They fought well."

"They did," Fautan agreed. "But we have every possible advantage. They will have no shame in their defeat. If possible, we will take them as prisoners. I wish to learn more about this new species. They interest me."

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"Close to three hundred kilometres and put a torpedo right down their throats." DiMisso ordered. "We don't want to kill them, just cripple them enough to get away safely."

"Firing solution locked!" Westernberg called from his console. "Launchers are primed and ready."

"Approaching firing position!" Littler swallowed as the behemoth loomed before him. He felt something warm and wet puddle in his seat. "Captain? If we're going to shoot..."

"All batteries, fire, fire, fire!" John felt the deck pulse beneath him as the launchers discharged their loads. Was Lady Luck actually on his side today?

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"Emergency boosters, NOW!" Fautan finally gave the order to his helmsman.

Turian cruisers were unwieldy in close quarters, there was no denying that. Rather than lighten them, and thus lose their advantage in weaponry, the Hierarchy had implanted highly volatile eezo boosters at regular intervals around the hull. When necessary, these could be activated. The results were usually helpful...or the ship would implode from the stress. One way or another, it usually decided the result of a fight.

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"Ah, ..." Littler swore and swore at the sudden development. The opposing vessel had spun on a one hundred and eighty degree angle. Instead of an unshielded approach vector, the _Leyte_ was suddenly facing a fully powered barrier...and half a dozen torpedo launchers.

Commander DiMisso witnessed the same event. "Evasive..."

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"Discharge all batteries," Fautan gave the order as calmly as he would have ordered a drink on the Citadel.

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Talavera-class frigates came with an extra half metre of heavy armour over their critical areas, and emergency blast doors in every compartment that wasn't deemed 'critical'. So when six torpedoes hit the _Leyte Gulf_ head on, it wasn't immediately crippled. Barrier emitters were fried, and the forward torpedo launchers were blasted off their mountings, but the tough little ship wasn't done yet. Rearing like a stung mustang, the _Leyte's_ engines flared as her helmsman maxed the throttle, trying to climb over the top of its attacker.

The _Fury_'spoint defence lasers continued to pound at the underside of the _Leyte_, melting what was left of her critical systems.

"Life support's gone," Littler was panicking. "So's auto-navigation, comms array, weapons, shields..."

"Ex? Come on Ex, get up!" Hobbs tugged at the torn sleeve of her unresponsive XO. Like still mirrors in darkness, his lifeless eyes reflected nothing but shade as his blood stained the junior officer's hands.

"Hobbs, get back to your post!" DiMisso wiped blood out of his eyes. "Littler, more power to the engines, get us..."

"Not gonna happen," Littler didn't bother adding the usual honorific. "FTL is off line. Eezo core is breached. And we got about two minutes till we run out of oxygen. It's over. We're done."

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"Cease fire!" Fautan knew he should continue firing, he should crush the impudent little vessel into a square ball of metal. And yet, he had not the heart to do it. They had fought well, with courage and skill. Turian doctrine demanded he killed them, but turian honour prevented him from doing so. "Tutmos, do we have access to their databases?"

Tutmos turned toward the ship's intelligence officer. The young turian cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Our VI's have been examining their computer systems. What do you desire, sir?"

"Language."

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Clarissa Hobbs was a young officer. Fresh faced, bright, enthusiastic and ambitious. There were thousands of men and women like her spread throughout the Alliance Navy. Unlike DiMisso, she had never spent any time in any of Earth's 'wet' fleets. She was the next generation of humanity. She should have had a long career, standing tall on the frontlines, proving her worth in countless battles,

But now she was going to die. She was going to die in the cold darkness of space, of that she was certain. Part of her wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. But since that would accomplish nothing, Ensign Hobbs manned her post, doing what little she could to try and forestall the doom of every crewman on the _Leyte Gulf_.

"Sir," Hobbs lifted her head, eyes flaring with alarm. "We're receiving...a comms burst. Short range, direct beam. Even with our gear fried, we should be able to receive what they have to say, maybe send something back."

DiMisso nodded. "Let's hear it. Maybe it'll be interesting."

"Do you think they're declaring war on us?" Littler nursed a burnt left hand.

The last intact view screen on the bridge slowly flickered to life. Four words were typed out in English, in large, block letters.

**=WILL. YOU. ASK. MERCY?=**

There was silence. DiMisso felt a slow, terrible rage burning in his heart. They wanted him to beg like a damn dog? Cower before them like a frightened kitten?

**=WILL. YOU. SURRENDER?=**

"Hobbs? Can you send something back?" DiMisso began walking to a small locker mounted on the side of the bridge. Never used, and something of a joke amongst the Navy personnel, it bore a simple title: EMERGENCY ARMOURY. Inputting his command code, he reached in and retrieved three of the Lowell Heavy Combat Pistols stored inside.

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"Captain, we are receiving a return transmission," Aeschylus scanned the message, a confused look split his mandibles. "Sir...I do not understand this..."

"What does it say?" Fautan stepped forward impatiently.

"It says 'Nuts', sir."

Fautan's mandibles drooped with astonishment. "Nuts? By the spirits, what does that have to do with..."

"Sir, another transmission is coming through."

This time, Fautan perfectly understood the line of text on the screen.

**=I HAVE NOT YET BEGUN TO FIGHT=**

"Their engines are flaring! BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Aeschylus thrust both of the throttles forward, but a target as big as the _Fury_ couldn't hope to dodge a bullet as small as the _Leyte_.

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Littler had aimed well. The front of the _Leyte_ hit the poorly armoured entrance to the _Fury's_ cargo bay and went through it like a knife through soft butter. A dozen turians were immediately killed as they were sucked out into vacuum. The frigate's thrusters continued to fire until she was well a truly wedged in, unable to be easily shifted.

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Fautan was unable to comprehend it. The sheer audacity of what these aliens had done was outside the realms of belief. Turian commanders would ram, or self destruct their ships to avoid capture...but this?

His cameras showed the airlock on the alien ship opening, and fifteen figures charging out, each of them dressed in matte black spacesuits. Four of them carried box like rifles, and the rest bore squat, ugly pistols. They were boarding his ship. Boarding his ship with fifteen soldiers. He had twenty Lancers guarding the bridge alone, and a hundred more, down below decks. Brave of these aliens, but so foolish.

"Tell Lieutenant Vyrnnus to have his company destroy these intruders!"

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"This is beyond insane!" Gunnery Sergeant Agu had already decided that fighting aliens wasn't much fun, but it was preferable to do it up close and personal. The barrel of his rifle was heating up as he poured 9.5mm rounds at the armoured figures. "Did I miss the memo where we were fighting split-jawed birds at close quarters?"

"It was in tonight's ship report," DiMisso was unused to the weight and recoil of the standard issue sidearm. Not a muscular man (his girlfriend on Jump Zero had been nagging him about his weight), his palms were bruised and his joints sore from incorrect dispersion of the kinetic energy generated by the propellant in the .50 cal rounds. "Do you see anything that looks like an elevator?"

At the far end of the hall, a door opened to reveal a dozen more of the tall aliens, more heavily armed and armoured than the squad the humans had already engaged. Agu flipped the fire selector on his ICWS onto full automatic. "You mean something like that?"

Corporal Tibbins and Serviceman Bueller both went down to the rifles of the newcomers, the mass accelerated bullets of the turians superior to the chemical based propellant of the humans.

"I need to get one of those!" Agu grunted as he ducked into cover. The Gunny was no rookie trooper. He had served in the regular army of the African Republic since his teenage years, and had been all over the world with the United Nations peacekeeping forces. He was a disciplined, seasoned soldier. And he was _not_ afraid. "Alright! Dale, Koper! Lay down cover fire! Jayco, Green! Grenades on my mark!"

Private Koper abandoned his pistol for Tibbins' rifle. "Do we even have a plan?"

"Get to that elevator, get to whatever this thing has for a CIC, then kill their bridge crew and take the ship," DiMisso smiled grimly at the astounded look on the Marine's face. "I didn't say it was a good plan."

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Lieutenant Ventrax Vyrnnus, First of Lancers aboard the HNV _Raptor's Fury_, was the best officer in the Hierarchy Fleet when it came to close quarters warfare. Part of that skill was in his blood. His father was General Coratix Vyrnnus, the warrior famed for leading the Great Suppression against bareface rebels hiding in the Krogan Demilitarized Zone. His mother was Shieldlady Kolasa, the Liberator of Nesto V. With a lineage such as this, he had always been destined for greatness. The personal interest of half a dozen Primarchs had guaranteed it.

When he been confirmed to be a biotic, his star had only ascended faster. The turian military usually assigned turian biotics to serve in enclosed units known as 'Cabals'. But a son of Clan Vyrnnus could not be permitted such isolation. His right to lead troops to glory could not be denied. As such, he became the only biotic in the Hierarchy that was not bound to a Cabal.

Serving under Fautan Xiliatus was the greatest honour a young officer could be afforded. And for that officer to distinguish himself in combat on his first tour, to fulfil the promise he had shown in training...Vyrnnus had more incentive to do well than others.

These thin, fleshy aliens were tougher than their outward appearance suggested. The stench and smoke of their weapons was affecting the performance of his troops. He could use his biotics to clear the smoke, but that would leave him weak at a critical time.

"Never a dull moment under Captain Xiliatus!" Sergeant Rhexon growled as he put another burst into one of the intruders. "What are these things anyway?"

"If we were supposed to know, we would have been told," Vyrnnus rebuked him. "Close your jaw and..."

"Grenades!" Rhexon tackled Vyrnnus into a side hall as several small metal canisters skittered down the hall. The sound of the explosions rattled Vyrnnus to his very bones. But the concussive blast did not harm him like the screams of his Lancers. The grenades had penetrated their shields and riddled them with shrapnel.

Vyrnnus and Rhexon scrambled to their feet and leapt back out...and found themselves in the middle of the advancing aliens.

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"GO!" Agu roared at DiMisso. "Get to the elevator! I'll see you in hell!"

"Damn it all!" DiMisso turned to run. He wasn't some damn bootneck, hell, he was practically flatfooted. This shit wasn't his style at all.

Koper and Dale were already dead by the time Agu started shooting. Green got off one burst that bounced off his target's shields before he took a knife through his faceplate. Jayco struck the taller alien across the face with the butt of his rifle, a cracking sound echoing through the hallway.

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Vyrnnus was tempted to drop his blade and clutch at his broken mandible in an attempt to stem the relentless agony. But like a true soldier, he fell back on his training. Extending his arm in a well-practiced mnemonic, he smashed his opponent's chest in with a biotic push.

The lifeless corpse flew away from Vyrnnus, leaving him free to deal with the last human.

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Gunny Agu had been in some tight situations before. Insurgents in Afghanistan, rioters in Mogadishu, rogue mercenaries on Mars. But never in his life had he been alone, out of ammo, and facing two pissed off aliens in a narrow corridor.

Fortunately for the Gunnery Sergeant, neither the 1st African Infantry Division or the Alliance Marine Corps encouraged fatalism. Even more fortunate was the loose restrictions the Marine Corps placed on the personal weapons of its Senior NCOs.

Drawing a long bladed tribal machete from the sheathe on his back, Agu adopted a Type Three fight stance. He didn't know what the odds were, he didn't really care. Gideon Agu did not run from a fight, blind pride rooted him in place, waiting to meet his fate.

"Well come on!" Agu grimaced. "I do not have all day!"

The aliens did not charge blindly as he had hoped, though they refrained from gunning him down. Long knives raised, they approached him from both sides. The tall one lunged first. Agu parried, then stabbed at the alien's face. The machete's edge sliced directly across the already broken mandible, severing it completely.

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This time the pain was too much. Vyrnnus recoiled from the alien fighter, screeching with pain and humiliation at the injury. Blue blood stained his teeth, covering his clan markings with the sapphire ichor.

Rhexon sprang to his commander's defence. The small alien backed away, denying Rhexon an opening. The Sergeant pursued him, hacking wildly with the flat of his knife. Batting aside the opposing blade, the turian slashed through the alien's thin armour and finally tearing at his foe's skin with the tip of his weapon.

Instead of shying away from the roving edge of Rhexon's knife, the alien did something unexpected. Ducking under the next swing, the alien punched Rhexon right between the mandibles. A swipe from the alien's blade nicked Rhexon's abdomen, he staggered back, knife lowered.

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Agu thrust, straight and true, just as his instructor had shown him twenty years before. The tip pierced the soft scales of the alien's throat, moving up through the brain and exiting out the back of his opponent's skull. Its eyes lolled back in its skull as it collapsed to its knees. Planting a foot on its chest, Agu pulled his blade free. The lifeless corpse then slumped against the wall.

Howling like a dervish, Agu charged toward the one he had already wounded. He raised his machete...then saw a bright, pulsating blue light...and then felt pain like he had never felt it before.

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Vyrnnus pushed away the mutilated alien corpse as the energy generated by his biotic warp finally dissipated. Slapping a field dressing against the stump of his left mandible, the turian unsteadily got back on his feet. Smoke stung his eyes, but it could not hide the dead bodies of his troops. _His_ troops. They had trusted him, and he had failed. Twenty good Lancers, killed in minutes...by creatures that looked like pyjaks. Loud, vicious, filthy, stinking primates.

=Captain Xiliatus?= Activating his comm link, Vyrnnus spoke to the bridge. =Captain Xiliatus, some of them got past us. They are coming to you=

=_Thank you, Lieutenant_= The captain's voice replied. =_They arrived a few seconds ago_=

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Fautan found himself confused. These aliens had demonstrated a talent for naval warfare, and a flare for improvisation. They had breached his ship, fought their way past his Lancers, and even penetrated to his command centre.

But where were the special weapons and tactics required for such an undertaking? Where were the mass accelerator rifles and heavy armour, equipped with powerful kinetic barriers? Heavy shock troopers? Breaching charges? Why had they boarded his ship with primitive, propellant based weaponry?

The bodies of the boarders lay in the elevator. The Lancers on the bridge had dealt with the intruders like a nuclear weapon dealt with krogan. The bullet riddled corpses lay still...all except one.

One of the aliens, a thin one with pale skin and long black hair, lay coughing in a pool of its own blood. An unfired handgun lay next to it. Fautan looked the creature, expecting to feel satisfaction...but felt only pity. Pity and a grudging respect.

"Get this one to the medical bay."

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**A/N: That's right folks, we'll even meet some familiar faces on the turian side of the war. Possible candidates include the Turian 'Air Quote' Councillor, General Oraka and Garrus's mother.**


	5. Sound the Alarm

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Five: Sound the Alarm

I don't own BioWare

**GARRISON BASE 'ECHO'**

**GARRISON COMMANDER'S OFFICE**

**JUNE 7TH, 2157, 2030 HOURS**

"You wanted to talk with me, Joe?" Colonel Matthias Pressly entered General Williams' office with a casual swagger that concealed the uneasy acknowledgement that he was about to get chewed out.

"Yeah," Joaquim turned from his window. The four story pre-fab didn't offer much of a view, but he could see the Adaptive Strike Fighters taking off for night training exercises, and the engine flare was still a beautiful sight, no matter how many times he had seen it before. "Take a seat, Matt."

"If this is about my drinking..." Pressly began.

"It's not," Williams sighed. "Matt, we've been friends for a long time. You taught me almost everything I know. It should be you in the garrison commander's position right now. You could have had your own command..."

"I'm not cut out for General's stars," Pressly interrupted. "Too much paperwork, I wanted a combat command."

"I know," Williams sat back down at his desk. "And you've been flitting around combat regiments ever since you got your colonelcy. You didn't take a staff position, teach at West Point or do anything that might have put you in the running for a Pentagon or Arcturus position."

Pressly put his hands on the desk. "You said we've known each other for a long time. I think I've earned the right to ask you to cut the bullshit."

"You want it straight?" The younger man unconsciously rubbed his facial scars. "You're too damn old to run around with a frontline command. Sixty four...son of a bitch, no combat regiment has ever gone into battle with a commander that's..."

"Decrepit?" Matthias inquired drily. "Ancient? Crumbling? Falling apart at the seams? Or just incompetent?"

"None of those," Joaquim stepped away. "Dammit, I'm not the bad guy here, Matt. No one is. But in good conscience, I can't keep you at the head of a unit that's meant to be battle ready at all times. If we ever get attacked, you could get killed, or one of your boys will get killed trying to protect you."

"I can look after myself," the older Colonel growled. "I'm fit as a fiddle."

"Doctor Patel informed me about your resurging arthritis."

"Lester should keep his damned mouth shut."

"I thought we had an agreement to be honest with each other?" Williams turned on his heel. "You deliberately tried to conceal a debilitating condition which will affect your performance. If I ordered you to take a fitness assessment in two weeks, could you prepare and pass it?"

Pressly halted, searching for words. "Joe..."

"If I made you run the combat course, could you make it in ten minutes? Thirteen? Fifteen?" The General persisted. "Matt, tell me you can do that, and I'll believe you. But don't lie to me if you can't."

Matthias dropped his eyes to the desk. "I can't."

"I thought not," Joaquim tried to conceal his disappointment. "I've known for a few weeks...and tomorrow I'll be making it official. You're being stood down and transferred. You'll remain in command until Lieutenant Colonel Platonov returns from leave, then you will pass over command and take the return transport back to Earth."

"Where are you sending me?"

"Pendleton. I called in every favour I had, convinced some people, rang up a few of your old friends. They're giving you one last command. You'll be in charge of all Alliance training facilities on the west coast of America. It's a Major General's position, you'll be screened and promoted in a few months."

"I see," Pressly wanted to feel slightly more excited than he did. "So I can spend the next few years getting fat and lazy? Show the kids what happens when a soldier reaches his 'use by' date?"

Joaquim snorted. "That'll be the day. Matt, show those kids what a soldier can be. You've given your whole life to the service, this is the service offering you your reward. No more mountains to climb, no more drills to run. You'll be training the next generation of troopers."

"Supervising," the man's spirits were rapidly dropping. "Sitting at a desk and tapping out recommendations. Wonderful."

"Matt, think of this as an oppor..."

"Joe, please." Pressly held up a hand. "I know everything you're about to say. I've said it all before. I understand, you're promoting me and getting me out of the way so that your command runs smoother. We both know I can still do this job, but Colonel Platonov's a riser, damn good for a Russki. Too good to be waiting in the wings for me to get sick of playing Marine."

"I want you to be able to leave with your dignity intact," Joaquim struggled to explain himself to the man who had been his mentor. "You don't deserve a medical discharge, not when you've still got it."

"Thank you." Matthias closed his eyes briefly. "Pendleton, huh?"

"Yep. But you can base yourself out of San Diego if you want."

"San Diego'd be good, nicer beaches."

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**ORBITAL DEFENCE STATION**

_**DARKO'S ENIGMA**_

**IN GEO-SYNCRHYNOUS ORBIT ABOVE SHANXI**

Operator Dale Dossitos had joined the Alliance for the novelty of a cushy job in space. A drifter by nature, Dale had never really settled into one particular job. He found it exciting to learn a new skill, but after that? He just got bored. Rather than settle into that boredom and take the inevitable step of going crazy a few years later to relieve the tension, he kept moving.

Right now, working as a Transit Traffic Controller for the trade ships going between Shanxi and Terra Nova was the best job he had ever had. Every day the experience changed. One second he was settling a traffic dispute between cargo merchants, the next he was guiding in the pilot of a damaged freighter. Dale had been ecstatic to find his niche in the job, and his parents had almost gone over the moon with joy.

But Dale was getting bored again. The trade ships had slammed to a halt as a solar storm near Terra Nova began compromising nav systems. People on both ends of the delay were trying to fix the glitches, but the new Virtual Intelligences weren't working as well as most people had hoped. The massively smart computers were incapable of innovation. They could only process and find solutions to calculations that were given to them. The tech was still in its infancy, but Dale felt confident that a human like him wouldn't be replaced anytime soon, no matter how smart the damn things got.

"This is Dale Dossitos," he began speaking into the personal recorder on his computer. "It's currently my ninth hour on shift, and so far we've seen nothing more interesting than a few comets hurtling past a few million miles..."

It was at that moment that his comm unit decided to start screaming at him.

"_This is SSV Lepanto! We are heavily damaged and being pursued by enemy fighters!"_

Dale almost fell of his chair. "Say again, Lepanto!"

There was an explosion on the other end of the line. _"Are you fucking deaf? We're under attack. They're not even human, they're aliens...somebody get that fire out!"_

Dale stared at his console as the link went dead. "Oh..."

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Lieutenant Commander Damian Wallace frowned as he looked out the cockpit of his X-25 Raider. =Enigma Control, this is Rider, I'm not seeing anything. When did you receive the Lepanto's SOS?=

_=About three minutes ago=_ The operator reported back, the kid was breathless with excitement. It only fuelled Wallace's irritation.

=Enigma Control, do you know the penalty for diverting a Combat Air Patrol without justifiable cause?=

=_I'm telling you, I heard it coming through loud and clear. They said they were under attack from aliens=_

Wallace looked at his scanners. =Well, there's nothing here, the Lepanto should have been within jump distance...=

There was a bright flash off the starboard side of Wallace's raider. The Lepanto came out of FTL, a brilliant flash of blue and purple accompanying it. Trailing a burning stream of fuel from her ruptured left thruster, the frigate was being hounded by a dozen smaller craft, fighters that reminded Wallace of a sword thrust through the centre of a round shield.

Wallace was a veteran of three minor wars, a man experienced in the dangers of combat flying. But even then, a cold spear lanced through his gut as he saw the 'alien' ships harassing the much larger frigate.

Snapping out of his haze, he ran his hands over his weapons systems, arming his missiles and feeding power to his bird's MAC. =Rider to Enigma Control, Hollywood!=

There was a pause. =_Roger that, Rider. Hollywood acknowledged, scrambling all Raiders to assist CAP=_

Wallace was already hooked in with the five other pilots in his CAP. =Robber, Blink, you handle the three on the right. Stone, Firefly, you take the four down low. Falcon, stay hard on my flank. We're going in!=

Lighting up his LADAR, Wallace painted the first two fighters for the guided missiles in his weapons bay. =Fox Three, Fox Three!=

Two SGM Sideflash III missiles jumped forward from the Raider, guided to their targets by the powerful LADAR waves that Wallace was lashing his targets with. Six feet from their targets, the warheads on the missiles exploded, enveloping the alien fighters inside a cone of momentary flame. The effect was instantaneous. Barriers collapsed, and both fighters disintegrated. With a wild war whoop, Wallace targeted another. He had just made ace, breaching the five kill barrier. One Chinese MIG off the coast of Taiwan, three pirates above Mars, and now two of these unknown bogies.

=Rider to CAP, cut 'em to pieces=

The flight of Raiders engaged the enemy in different ways. Some used Sideflash and guided their missiles to their kills, some used Pallas 'fire-and-forget' auto-lock seekers. Firefly chose to get up close to his chosen target and tear it to pieces with his rapid firing MAC. In thirty seconds, the skies were clear. The Raider was an air-superiority fighter, designed to own the dark of space. It performed that task with an efficiency that was both impressive and terrifying.

=Lepanto, you are away clear!= Wallace fired up his boosters, performing a victory roll past the bridge of the frigate. =Eight Seven Garrison Squadron thanks you for doing your shopping with us=

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Lieutenant Kaza Decidus was a turian who understood the maxim, 'A warrior's valour is best proven when he chooses not to throw away his life for a hopeless cause'. The second his comrades had started exploding around him, his fight or flight reflexes kicked in, and they heavily favoured flight. Streaking away from the engagement, his heart burned as he listened to the panicked cries of his flight, as the enemy fighters surprised them.

But someone had to return to the _Raptor's Fury_, and report the good news. They had located the home planet of those who had tried to open the relay. Those were his orders, as much as they stung. He had to run.

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**OUTREACH CITY**

**COLONIAL SECURITY COUNCIL**

**EMERGENCY ASSEMBLY**

These were the ones, Williams reflected. The eight men and women that were responsible for the safety of Shanxi, whether from environmental disasters, criminal activity, or the occasional pirates and raiders.

Shanxi was a budding colony, but still small compared to the massive bastion of humanity that was Terra Nova. With a population of just under a million, Shanxi was chiefly an agrarian community. The only major city was Outreach, with a population of two hundred and fifty thousand. The rest of the population was spread out across the three small northern continents, and the one southern mega-continent.

"Commander Leichardt," Governor Paul Worthing spoke from his position at the head of the table. "I'm going to ask you again, and I'll speak very slowly so that there may be no mistake, who attacked you at Project Outbound?"

"Aliens." Leichardt replied simply. "The profiles of their vessels, their levels of tech, even their tactics, don't match up to anything humanity has."

"This is impossible," Commander Gilson, head of Shanxi's civil police, leaned forward. "They had to have been pirates or rebels. Maddy, hasn't there been a spike in insurgent chatter?"

"Nothing on this scale," Madeline Montferrat, the slim Frenchwoman from Alliance Intelligence, was her usual sarcastic self. "If the rebels got their hands on a cruiser, believe me, we would know."

"Then what?" Vassily Zaichev, a Ukranian firefighter at the head of the planet's central emergency services, questioned. "Are we supposed to believe this lunacy? That we are under attack from aliens?"

"I can only tell you what I saw," Leichardt was trembling, the young Commander was trying to stave off shock, but he desperately needed peace and quiet. "We came under attack from un-identified ships. They cut us to ribbons. We were outnumbered. Those fighters destroyed every science vessel we had. We barely got away ourselves."

Williams watched as the heads of Agriculture, Medicine and the Alliance Navy representative, Commodore Roberts, continue to debate. The argument was growing louder, each man and woman reacting with suspicion, accusation and bluster. General Williams felt his ire growing.

"If I may?" Joaquim stood up. "This isn't the time to argue on the merits of alien existence versus a rebel attack."

Governor Worthing looked at the garrison commander. "What would you suggest, General Williams?"

"I trust Commander Leichardt's appraisal of the situation," Williams announced. "And as farfetched as it might seem, I believe that Shanxi is under threat of imminent attack. I don't know whether by aliens or rebels, but we are in danger. As Governor, the situation remains under your control...until a time comes when I believe martial law and military jurisdiction a necessity."

Worthing blinked. "You dare..."

"Of course not," Joaquim soothed the Governor's injured pride. "I believe you're with me on this issue? And we are not under attack yet. However, it would behove you to activate the Rubicon Contingency now, rather than later."

"Rubicon?" Worthing had turned white. "That will take us to..."

"Our highest alert level," Williams confirmed. "Member of the Council, the garrison is well equipped to handle a wide variety of external threats. I have ten thousand troops ready for immediate deployment in any of the northern continents alone, another six thousand spread around down south. The Rubicon Contingency is designed for moments when immediate mobilisation and preparation is required. Need I remind you that we have lost a frigate and many more civilian lives?"

"Point taken," Agent Montferrat nodded. "You have a full division General, what other forces would you need to protect the colony?"

"If Rubicon Contingency is declared, then before the night is out, I can have all police and security forces mustered, four thousand men," Williams was confident about this. Gurung had drawn up the plans, and the Gurkha wasn't one to miss his estimates. "By lunchtime tomorrow, I can have the auxiliary reserves and militia armed and standing by. That's another ten thousand. All told, I can get about thirty thousand troops with which to protect nine hundred thousand civilians."

"We need reinforcements, and plenty of them," Commodore Roberts pointed out the obvious. "The new orbital defence platforms make Shanxi a fortress, but they're designed to support a concerted defence by a naval force, not to defend a whole planet without backup. I propose we patch up the Lepanto and immediately dispatch her back to Arcturus. Admiral Drescher is on manoeuvres with Second Fleet. She could be here in a week..."

"Two weeks," Gurung spoke up. The wiry Lieutenant Colonel had been quietly taking notes during the meeting. "The solar storms along the Terra Nova shipping routes will delay the Lepanto's passage, and hold up Second Fleet's arrival."

"Two weeks," Governor Worthing shook his head. "We'll be vulnerable for two whole weeks. What if they attack tomorrow?"

"Then we'd just have to hold for two weeks," Williams spoke quietly. "We can't panic. We're not under attack yet. But if the attack at the Relay was more than a random act of piracy, then we need to be ready."

There was a round of nods around the table. A unanimous decision. Worthing finally stood. "General, I am declaring the Rubicon Contingency to be in effect. Under the Colonial Charter, you are now the second highest authority on this planet. You are ordered to use any means at your disposal to ready this colony for a potential invasion."

Joaquim acknowledged the governor's quiet assertion of his authority. The General was being reminded of his place, he was still the one taking orders. "Leichardt. How long before the Lepanto can be ready?"

"To patch up the engines? Six hours, if the dry dock crews work their guts out. But we'll be at half speed all the way back to Arcturus," Leichardt warned.

"Get it done." The Governor stood. "We will convene again tomorrow. I expect civilian evacuations to the safe zones to begin immediately. Dismissed."

Madeline walked toward Williams and Gurung. She pulled both of them aside. "How is Rubicon supposed to work? We drafted it back when Shanxi had less than half a million civilians."

"We've updated it," Gurung assured her. "We evacuate as many people as we can to the safe zones in the south. There are bunkers and supplies in the mountains, and not much infrastructure to interest a military force. Those we can't get out, we hide in the shelters underneath the city."

"And what about fighting back?"

Gurung hesitated. Williams nodded him on. The Gurkha reluctantly continued. "All our heavy armoured units are down south. The terrain in the north isn't suitable for training. We have around one hundred heavy tanks, and three hundred Infantry Fighting Vehicles."

"Can you be ready?"

"If we had enough time, we could turn Shanxi into a fortress," Williams growled. "All we can do is try to be ready."

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**GARRISON BASE 'ECHO'**

**ALPHA COMPANY, 1****ST**** BATTALION, 14****TH**** FORCE RECONAISSANCE REGIMENT**

"HIT THE DECK!" Company Sergeant Major Nothis screamed as he strode down the rows of bunk beds. "I WANT EVERY MAN IN THIS PLATOON GEARED UP AND ON THE TARMAC IN TEN MINUTES!"

There was a chorus of groans from the platoon. Somebody protested: "It's three o'clock in the fucking morning, Sarge!"

"I'LL BE TAKING NONE OF YOUR LIP!" A former Coldstream Guard, Nothis had a voice that could cause earthquakes. "GET YOUR ARSE MOVING, BOYO!"

Alenko and McDevitt were both out of their racks in seconds. The two NCO's were accustomed to moving fast. With practised movements, they yanked on their camouflage fatigues, then grabbed field boots from their footlockers.

"What the hell's command up to?" Corporal Hadlock muttered as he dressed. "Getting us up this early for a drill..."

"This isn't a drill, soldier!" CSM Nothis had moved up silently behind the young Marine. "Rubicon Contingency has been declared. We're going to a full war footing. Now get going!"

Norman froze. "Rubicon?"

"Rubicon," a sharp voice spoke from behind Alenko. Lieutenant Mary Winkels, the platoon commander, was standing behind Norman and Bob. She was in full battle gear, her dirty blonde hair neatly bundled up, her helmet and rifle in her hands. Staff Sergeant Drey, the squad leader, was by her side. Both of them were wearing grim expressions. Winkels looked at the two fireteam leaders. "The word came down half an hour ago. We're to move toward Outreach immediately. Colonel Pressly will be waiting for us."

Not even giving them time to speak, Winkels moved on to the next squad. Drey turned to his NCO's. "Get your teams in order. I want the squad ready to move with the rest of the platoon. We don't need any fuck ups."

"Roger that, boss," McDevitt grabbed cap. "Can you tell us why Rubicon got called?"

The Staff Sergeant hesitated. "I'm not really sure...but I got a buddy who's got friend's on the Lepanto, and he mentioned something about aliens."

Both of the junior Sergeants froze. McDevitt slammed his footlocker shut. "That's just perfect. What the fuck are we supposed to do against aliens?"

Norman didn't know what to say...and he didn't know what to do. "Come on, the CSM's gonna chuck a fit if we don't hustle."

Lacing up their boots, the last of the Marines marched out into the night. They were good, the best of the best...but only humans, humans with no idea of what they were about to face.

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**A/N: Defence Force Recruiting finally contacted me about booking an assessment day for Army Reserve, so I finally felt like getting back to work on this story.**


	6. Call to War

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Six: Call to War

I don't own BioWare

**RELAY 314**

**ASSEMBLY POINT FOR THE FAR WATCHING FLEET**

**HIERACHY DREADNAUGHT**_** TYREAUS**_

Kaza Decidus knew that something was about to happen. It had taken almost a day for three of the squadrons of the Far Watching Fleet to assemble, along with a cradle ship to make repairs on the _Raptor's Fury_.

There were already respectful nods being directed at anyone wearing the insignia of the cruiser. They had prevented a ship from going through the relay, and a group of technicians had been successful in deactivating it. Add to that a naval victory over the newcomers, and the reputation of Captain Xiliatus and his crew had skyrocketed.

But Decidus was angry. He had lost his own command. Twenty pilots had perished in the pursuit of the other enemy vessel. Nine had been downed by the wounded vessel, the other eleven had been shot down by enemy fighters. He wanted payback. That had to be why he was here. He had seen Lieutenant Vyrnnus being rushed around by other Lancer and Army officers, along with other members of the Fury's crew.

"Lieutenant!" Fautan intercepted the young officer. "Come with me!"

Decidus followed him. "What is happening, sir?"

"Admiral Jhirx has requested that you brief her on the location of the enemy homeworld," Fautan replied tersely. "Decidus, this is bad. We may have sparked a war that we do not want."

Decidus wanted to bark at that remark. He wanted a war right now, wanted to pay back these stupid creatures, blood for blood and life for life. "Sir, why do you shy away from battle?"

Fautan wheeled on the junior pilot. "Watch your tongue, _Lieutenant_. I was fighting pirates while you were hunting dai rats back on Palaven."

The rebuke was harsh. Decidus could see that Fautan was upset. He could appreciate his commander's worry, but didn't share it. His scans had revealed impressive defences, but nothing that the Fleet couldn't crush.

"Just be careful," Fautan gave him a final warning. "Admiral Jhirx is not to be trifled with, nor underestimated. Answer only what she asks you."

The doors in front of them opened, a pair of Lancers escorted them into the very heart of the _Tyreaus._ The communications room was dark, so dark that Decidus had to blink several times to actually see what awaited him. Admiral Sablet Jhirx stood a bare ten feet in front of him, her back turned. She was examining a holographic star chart, flicking through the interface.

"Lieutenant Decidus," her voice was sharp. "You return without your command. I assume you have an explanation?"

Decidus bowed his head. "Admiral, we were ambushed. But..."

"No buts," Jhirx turned around. Her eyes pierced through Decidus's excuses, he had to break eye contact. Jhirx paced towards him. "You completed your mission, that is all that matters. You have the location?"

Decidus wordlessly presented his flight log. Jhirx took it, nodding with satisfaction. "You may leave us."

Decidus scuttled toward the door, eager to be out of her presence. He only knew the Admiral by reputation. The reputation was completely useless. The woman was terrifying. If she decided that punitive action toward the aliens was necessary, then Decidus had the uncomfortable hunch that his life wouldn't be important in any way to the commander of the Far Watching Fleet.

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"So," Jhirx's voice rang out. "You were the one who engaged these aliens, Captain Xiliatus. What would you recommend?"

Fautan straightened his back. "There has been enough bloodshed. If you examined my initial contact report, I requested the immediate despatch of a first contact team from the Citadel. The Council needs to..."

"The Council has not been informed of this," a new voice spoke from the back of the communications room. "The protocols allow us to delay informing them of first contact if we deem it of low priority."

Fautan's blood ran cold when he heard the voice. He turned toward the shorter turian, now revealed as he stepped forward. "General Arterius."

Desolas Arterius, General of the Seventh Infantry Legion, was universally respected for his honour and savagery. The soldier had fought across dozens of worlds, suppressing revolts and crushing pirates. Even Aria T'Loak did not challenge the turian whenever he ventured onto Omega and into the depths of the Terminus Systems. His prowess as a warrior and a field commander could not be matched by any other turian.

"Captain Xiliatus," Desolas greeted him cordially. "I must congratulate you on your victory. Your actions have prevented a great tragedy."

"One tragedy for another then?" Fautan replied, momentarily forgetting his place. "These aliens are like children, we must..."

"Your conscience is commendable," Desolas interrupted him. "But inappropriate in this situation. These 'children', as you call them, are dangerous. If they activated this relay, then they could do the same to others. We must immediately act to prevent this threat."

"What are you suggesting?" Fautan asked in surprise. "Surely the Primarchs realise that this is a matter for the Council to resolve?"

"The Primarchs agree with my assessment," Desolas examined the holographic representation of the alien planet. "They have approved a full scale strike. The Far Watching Fleet will transport my legion to this planet, and assist us in neutralizing this new threat. Primarch Valern will be arriving soon to supervise the campaign."

"Valern?" Fautan flinched. The Primarch was a political monster, a career soldier and diplomat, renowned for his ferocious ambition. "Admiral Jhirx, I must formally protest..."

"Your protest is noted." Jhirx turned away. "The _Raptor's Fury_ will be ready for battle in three cycles. We will commence our attack then. You will be leading the attack, _Admiral_ Xiliatus."

"Admiral?"

"The Council of Primarchs unanimously voted to grant you a promotion in anticipation of your upcoming command of Eighth Squadron." Jhirx opened a small case, revealing the single silver stripe of a Quarter Admiral. "Who better to subdue these primitives than the soldier who stopped them in their tracks? I hope you will accept this honour, you are the natural choice."

Fautan's talon brushed the burnished silver. There it was. Everything he had fought for, his payment for years of service. His _right_. And all he had to do was reach out and take it. Part of him wanted to refuse. The war would be unjust. One sided. Dishonourable. But he could not turn this down. The Xiliatus name would be remembered thanks to him. He had redeemed his father's lost honour. It was time.

"I thank you for this honour," Fautan spoke aloud. "I will lead our forces to this planet, crush their defences, and give General Arterius save passage to the surface."

Desolas inclined his head in a gesture of genuine respect. "Honour and wisdom attend you, Admiral."

"And may all your efforts lead to victory." Fautan bowed back. "I shall return to supervise the repairs on my ship."

Jhirx remained silent until Fautan had departed. She appeared to lose herself in contemplation, ignoring Desolas. The male turian waited patiently for several minutes. As famed and powerful as he was, Desolas knew that his personal authority would never come close to that of the female Admiral. Her clan was more powerful, her career more distinguished, and her political friends infinitely more influential.

"A bold plan." Jhirx finally spoke. Desolas did not reply. "Subdue an overly curious people, enlist them as a client race. Bypass all Council first contact protocols."

"And ensure the continued prosperity of the Hierarchy," Desolas pointed out. "We allow Valern to put the right political spin on it, and we will return to Palaven with glory on our shoulders."

"Valern will try to claim the credit, he has his eyes set on Councillor Hadriac's position," Jhirx snorted.

"So much the better for us," the General reassured her. "Valern is the youngest Primarch ever to be seated in the Assembly. If he ascends to the Council, he will hold power for many years. And he will be in a position to grant favours to those who aided him. Your ambitions toward the seat of our most honoured Grand Admiral would be realised."

"I am already well on my way to that position."

"Perhaps, in ten years, after much bowing and scraping to those inferior to you in rank and birth. With Valern's support, you would be Grand Admiral and Commander of all Hierarchy Forces in less than three years, as you deserve."

Jhirx was silent again. Her mandibles clicked together softly. "I see Clan Arterius has not lost its talent for words of flattery. It is easy to see how your grandsire regained his seat in the Minor Assembly."

Desolas stiffened. "He earned his seat through acts of valour..."

"He stole it back through machinations, riding on the reputation of Clan Pallin!" Jhirx spoke with the weight of a student of history. "And his reputation will never be fully cleansed. Not as long as the bones of those he betrayed cry out for justice against his clan. If you had any honour, you would have killed yourself years ago."

The turian's temper blazed white hot for a second. "Admiral...I think..."

"That is why you wish this war, is it not?" Jhirx looked him in the eyes. "You have covered yourself with more glory than any other turian before you. The name of Desolas is respected, it always shall be. But Clan Arterius shall always be dishonourable. And you cannot tolerate that, can you, General? But if you were to add a client race to the ranks of the Hierarchy, then perhaps the old sin might be forgotten..."

"Perhaps you are right," Desolas spoke steadily, his rage cooling. "We both wish for this war to enhance our reputations. The difference is that you wish it for your own name. I wish it for the sake of my family. For my brother and I, who will never be equals with even the lowliest turian, not so long as our Clan is remembered with derision."

He stepped forward. "I only wish to walk without the weight of that on my back. To restore the primacy of the Hierarchy is my goal, but for myself I desire only an honourable name. To be able to forget crimes long past. To bond with whomever I wish..."

His hand reached out to stroke Jhirx's fringe. There was a moment of pain as she seized his arm and twisted it violently. This time, there was anger on her face.

"You dwell in the past, General." She hissed. "You were never my bondmate, nor my lover. A simple pleasure indulged in by a cadet too easily impressed by her Lieutenant. I am Sablet, of Clan Jhirx. Do you think I would ever lower myself to bond with one of Arterius?"

Desolas forced a respectful smile onto his face. "No, I suppose not. I apologise for my insolence."

"Your apology is noted and accepted." Jhirx's emotional mask slipped back into place without any notable pause. "Ready your troops, General. In three days, we go to war."

The older turian turned to leave. Jhirx's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Touch me again without my consent, and I will have you patrolling the Krogan DMZ for the rest of your career. Am I understood?"

In his younger years, Desolas would have killed her where she stood. He had no idea why she delighted in taunting him. Part of him was almost certain that she had some undiagnosed mental condition, or she was just a better turian than him. The line was a thin one. "I understand. May honour and wisdom attend you."

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**SILTHRIM HOTEL**

**RONA DISTRICT, ILIUM**

**0630 HOURS, LOCAL TIME**

Ceris Feon had known that when she woke up, she probably wouldn't know where she was, how she got there, where her clothes were, or who the strangers in her bed were. The third fruity _elasa_ cocktail usually guaranteed that.

It came as a pleasant surprise, then, to find herself in her own bed, in her own apartment, with only one batarian snoring next to her. Even better, her clothes were more or less close by, allowing her to rapidly dress and head down the hallway to her private study, where her terminal was going crazy.

"What is it Baya?" She sighed as she saw her salarian co-worker on the screen. "Hit up a new story on a corrupt asari matriarch? Find a leak in the Shadow Broker's network? Something to get me off this planet and back to the Citadel?"

"I thought you liked it here on Ilium?" The grey skinned salarian smiled sardonically. "After all, you were the one who asked for the posting? And I seem to recall you were quite enthusiastic about your request. Matron Edva was walking funny for days."

"Ha ha," Ceris laughed sarcastically. "Ilium's fine. For the first two years. We've been here for three. I'm kinda getting sick of the local food, and the small stories."

"We won an award for that police brutality investigation." Baya objected.

"Yeah, but they never convicted the bitch, just suspended her till the fuss blew over, then gave her the sack," Ceris grumbled. "You better have something good. I've got a hot batarian back in my bedroom, and if I have to leave him for some..."

"Sister, I've got just two words for you," Baya leaned forward for dramatic effect. "Desolas Arterius."

"The turian guy?" Ceris massaged her throbbing fringe. "He's old news. Just another over-decorated pale scale decaying while he waits for another Krogan Rebellion."

"What if I told you that his whole legion just vanished from their training billets?" Baya pressed her. "Or that Admiral Sablet Jhirx just gathered up every squadron the turians have near the DMZ, and headed for an undisclosed location."

"Probably just manoeuvres," Ceris yawned. "Remind me to snap off one of your horns later."

"Ceris, just come into the office and look over the data," Baya pleaeded. "I promise, you won't be disappointed."

Ceris thought of the extremely distracting object still asleep back in her room. "Baya..."

"How badly do you want off this planet?"

"...I'll be there in ten."

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With a brief shower and a mug of salarian stimulants, Ceris set out for her office. Citadel News Network had allowed her a fair salary and a generous expense account to work with. The office wasn't excessively comfortable, but the view was good, and the computer systems were top notch. A reporter half a galaxy away from her news service could do a lot worse.

Still yawning, Ceris keyed in her password at the office door, and stormed in, ready to break Baya's horns off and mount them on a necklace...well, that's what her father would have done. Grundan Mesk had been very vocal about his opinions on salarians, to his asari bondmate's eternal amusement.

Ceris had been in a commando unit for about sixty years before the urge to wander struck her. Like her father, she could not contain the desire to explore, to learn, to stick her nose into things that were none of her business. She had more opportunities to do that behind a camera, than behind the scope of a sniper rifle.

"Fine, I'm here." She flopped onto a seat next to the salarian researcher. "Whatcha got?"

"Just the biggest turian military build up since the last big push at Tuchanka." Baya announced with a grin. "What I told you earlier was the truth. I can now confirm that the whole Far Watching Fleet is en route to a dormant relay six parsecs away from the Maarax Trade Route. No one ever bothers going out that far. There's literally nothing there. At least, there wasn't anything fifty years ago, when the last probe went out that way."

The asari's interest was finally flamed. "Well...there's clearly something there now...provided that they're not just trying to do a little emergency assembly practice."

"Nah. The whole fleet performed regular training manoeuvres with the Citadel Defence Fleet. If Jhirx wanted to test their reaction times, she'd do it going _into_ a training cycle, not coming _out _of one."

"So?" Ceris snorted. "Say there _is_ something going on, what makes you think it's not just another flare up with the krogan? It'll be over in a few days, long before we ever get out there."

"But don't you see?" Baya was getting excited again. "Arterius is the key. A guy this good doesn't get sent to fight krogan. It's something big, something that merits sending their two best commanders out somewhere that no one's ever heard of."

"And?"

"And?" The salarian almost screamed. "Ceris, we are looking at possibly the biggest turian military action since..."

"Since the Rebellions, I got that," Ceris sighed. Well, she could use a good field trip, even if it was a wild goose chase. "Alright, we'll go take a look. Get the _Noeb_ fired up, and make sure it's well stocked. It'll take us a week to get out there, even at max velocity."

"YES!" Baya rocketed to his feet, clenched fist pumped into the air. He swept her up into his surprisingly powerful arms, almost crushing her. "I'm telling you Ceris, you won't regret this. I feel it in my gut..."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Ceris couldn't help but smile as she fought her way out of the hug. "Now get to work."

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"Lieutenant Vyrnnus!"

The Lancer officer frowned as he looked up from the table. The debriefing room was small, cold. What idiot wanted to make a debriefing room cold? Weren't they supposed to make him alert and ready to talk?

The officer on the other side of the table shook his head in frustration. "I'll ask you again, Lieutenant. How did these aliens fight?"

"What does that even mean?" Vyrnnus murmured.

"It means did they fight as individuals, or did they act in co-ordination?" The staff officer asked with exaggeration. "What were there weapons like? Did they use shields?"

"I've already told this to the others," the junior officer's temper flared. "If you can't read the reports I've given you, then stug off."

The older turian stood up, outrage on his facial plates. "Watch your mouth, Lieutenant. You succeeded in losing half a phalanx against them, you're stamping on half melted ice!"

Vyrnnus stood. "Well then why don't you..."

"Sit! Down!" Another voice snapped at Vyrnnus. "Commander V'tuc, please leave us."

Startled by the authority in the new voice, Vyrnnus took his seat. The staff officer nodded respectfully, with a trace of fear. Vyrnnus felt the sudden urge to be anywhere else.

A female turian clad in a matte black uniform stood in the doorway. She glared at Vyrnnus. "I expect a Lancer of your standing to have more self control."

"He was..."

"I'm not in the mood to listen to excuses." The female took the seat opposite him. "My name is Lieutenant Commander Lacriss Vakarian. I command the Twelfth Shock Phalanx. You are Lieutenant Ventrax Vyrnnus, am I correct?"

Vyrnnus felt a twinge of unease. Shock Phalanxes were the Turian Hierarchy's best units, almost as good as the salarian Special Tasks Group at stealth and espionage, and far exceeding their salarian counterparts in military prowess. He had never heard of the 12th Phalanx...which meant they were particularly good. You only ever got reports about the missions that went wrong, nobody needed to know about the ones that went right.

"Yes ma'am," he was careful to speak respectfully. Unlike his previous interrogator, this one could, and would, snap him in half if he stepped out of line.

"Excellent, I'm glad we got that out of the way," Commander Vakarian replied sarcastically. "Now Lieutenant, I don't want any gnosha out of you. Just a simple answer. My phalanx is the best in the Legion. We are given only assignments that General Arterius deems to be of critical importance. When we assault this new planet, I will be leading the spearhead. I asked for you to be on my command team."

Vyrnnus knew he should be ecstatic. For a Lancer officer to be requested for such an assignment was unheard of. "But there is a problem?"

"I knew you'd catch my drift," Lacriss nodded approvingly. "I need to know what kind of people these aliens are. I need your honest assessment of their character."

"Why mine? I lost troops to them. Troops I should have kept safe."

"It is in the thick of battle that we truly learn the nature of our foe." The female turian leaned forward. "Your assessment, please."

Vyrnnus looked her in the eyes, and any thoughts he had of dodging the question died a rapid death. "They are...adaptive. They do not die easily. They fought us, even when there was little chance of victory."

Lacriss stared back at him, searching for any hint of truth that he might have concealed. "Well...that is regrettable."

"Why?" Vyrnnus asked, surprised at her words.

"Because a race like that will not surrender without a hard fight," Commander Vakarian stood. Her mandibles were raised in irritation. "And there will be no difference in the end result. Many of them will die, and the rest will become a species under the auspices of the Hierarchy. It is just a question of how many will perish before the end."

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**A/N: Just a warning, I'm not going to be writing for about a week, I have a 2000 word essay due in three days, and my Army Reserve Interview is the day after that, so I have to prioritize.**


	7. Black Blades

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Seven: Black Blades

I don't own BioWare

**OUTREACH CITY, CITY HALL**

**TEMPORARY GARRISON HEADQUARTERS**

**0400 HOURS, SHANXI STANDARD TIME**

**JUNE 8****TH****, 2157**

Sergeant Bob McDevitt had always sworn that he could smell dawn coming. Norman Alenko had taken great pains to explain to him that what he smelled was not actually dawn, but rather, other factors reacting to the dawn. Small animals getting up to forage, nocturnal predators returning to their homes, the dew gathering on the grass, and of course, his body's own clock telling him that it was time to get some work done.

McDevitt, of course, always shook his head sadly, as if he were a possessor of some long forgotten skill which Norman was forever forbidden to attain. But in the early dark of the morning, Norman began to understand what his friend had been trying to tell him. He could almost smell the sun about to rise.

In front of them, Colonel Matthias Pressly stood on top of an IFV. The bags under his eyes indicated he had obtained no more sleep than his Marines. 1st Battalion had spent the whole night preparing for the dawn. The Colonial Security Council had decided to delay the evacuation order till morning. General Williams had voted against it, but in the absence of an immediate threat, the CSC had overruled him.

Norman couldn't make a judgement on whether that was the right call. Not when he still had no clue about what was happening. All he could do was wait, and hope the Colonel was going to do more on the IFV than stand there and look pretty.

"Listen up Marines!" Pressly began to speak over a loudspeaker. "Men and women of First Battalion, we have a problem on our hands. Because it seems..."

"Gonna be aliens," Corporal Kate Barber hissed quietly to McDevitt. "I'm calling it now."

"It's not gonna be aliens," the Sergeant hissed back, smacking the scout over the back of the head. "Shut your mouth and keep your ears open!"

"...that a group of uninvited extraterrestrials has decided to crash the little party we've got going on here at Shanxi." Pressly's brow was furrowed. "Now I know we've all been discussing First Contact for a while now, the possibility of alien life in the galaxy. Everyone hoped that it'd be peaceful. Friendly, even. It doesn't appear that has been, or will be, the case."

A sudden silence descended over the assembly area. Norman felt the eyes of his squad on him. They were looking to him, as their NCO, to have some kind of explanation. How was he supposed to explain..._this_?

Pressly continued to talk. "Now, I know this news may come as something of a shock, but rest assured, I have been assured by General Williams that this information...is genuine. Until further notice, Shanxi is under full alert. The Rubicon Contingency is in effect, but martial law _is not_. We are to assume that we will come under attack soon. Our ships that engaged the enemy report that their technology is on par with ours. They drew first blood, but we've certainly spilled some of theirs."

There was a murmur of approval amongst the leathernecks. Even some respectful glances toward the Navy medics. If the squids managed to get some tit for tat in, then there wouldn't be much trouble in slaughtering whatever bug eyed monster wanted to tangle with the garrison.

Norman however, was hit by a sudden bolt of fear. Fear, motivated by uncertainty. He wanted details, a lot more details than would be provided in a pep talk. Colonel Pressly continued his impromptu speech.

"Human or alien, your mission and objectives remain the same! Protect the colonists, protect Shanxi! I'm not sure what colour their blood is, but if they set foot on this planet, then you'll get a chance to spill every drop! Am I right Marines?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Bullshit! I can't hear you!"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

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**ORBITAL DEFENCE STATION**

_**DARKO'S ENIGMA**_

Dale had been the victim of a sleepless night. Somehow, he had found himself caught in the middle of what seemed to resemble some kind of war. Dale didn't like war. He specifically enlisted in non-military duties to avoid war. But now he was being ordered to keep alert for alien ships, and to be prepared to use the _Enigma's_ missile batteries to destroy anything that didn't look like it was built by humans.

The Lepanto had gone, limping out of the dry dock, the crew on a simple mission: Bring help. One of the Alliance's major fleets packed enough firepower to utterly obliterate anything that stepped foot near Shanxi...the problem was finding them, organising them, and dragging them all the way back.

Shanxi wasn't entirely alone, of course. Dozens of patrol frigates and corvettes roamed the empty black, some on survey duties, others hunting pirates. A twelve man corvette packed enough plasma torpedoes to ruin the day of a cruiser caught with its shields down, and a frigate wolfpack was more than a match for one. The trouble was assembling them. The deep space assignments were given to the loners, the free-thinkers, the skippers who had the balls and brains to work independently. Such men, and their crews, were not easy to contact. Dale doubted that more than a dozen would come, and not all of them would be warships.

The Alliance had always been masters of delegation. And in an age where every battle-ready ship was also needed for disaster relief, peacekeeping, and convoy duties, mercenaries were occasionally hired to fill in the gaps.

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**MSV HADES**

**CHARON INTERGALACTIC**

**TWO LIGHTYEARS FROM SHANXI**

"Our company name sucks." Ben Hislop proclaimed as he entered the cockpit.

Eva Core glanced over her shoulder at the taller mercenary. "Ben, I'm not having this argument with you again."

"I'm just sayin'!" The thickset merc dropped into the co-pilot's chair, propping his feet up on the console. "Charon Intergalactic? What kind of name is that for a badass Private Military Corporation?"

"The kind of name that sells," Eva replied curtly. "Charon, boatman over the river Styx. It's fierce, but it's also comforting. People like to be carried, and we can do that."

"We?" Ben wrinkled his face. "Oh yeah, all three of us. You, me, and..."

"Your boss," Eva pushed his boots away from the control column. "Your boss, my boss, the one who pays the bills, keeps the ship fuelled, the guns loaded, and the contracts rolling in. Pretty soon we'll have the rep we need to go public. Then we can hire more hands, build the business, and in ten years we can buy our own moon."

"I don't know," Ben looked doubtful. "Not with a shitty name like Charon, we're not."

There was a thud of boots on the deck. A cheerful voice rang through the cockpit. "Eva, is Ben still bitching about the name?"

"He hasn't shut up since Arcturus!" The blonde pilot/tech specialist complained. "We're getting paid two million hard UNAS dollars for this job, and he still thinks we could have done better."

Jack Harper, CEO of Charon Intergalactic, unceremoniously kicked Hislop out of the seat. "He's right, I should have asked them to pay us in Euros, UNAS dollar's fluctuating."

"I still think we should have gone for the security contract back in Lowell," Ben grumbled, irritated at the loss of his seat. "That was five million up front."

"Too close to Earth," Jack checked the navigation. Still floating in space, looking like helpless prey for any pirate. "If you want to build a name, you've got to take the unusual jobs."

"And I still say we should change the name!" The weapons specialist retorted. "Charon ain't no good, makes us sound like freighters. We need something bold, something that'll get noticed."

"I'm open to suggestions," Jack snickered as Eva reached for a set of ear plugs she kept in the cockpit's weapons locker for just such an emergency. "You have thirty seconds to make your pitch."

"I say we stick with the old legend theme," Ben leaned forward enthusiastically. "Cerberus. That's what we should call the company. Big, three headed dog, guarding humanity. Gives the image that we're tough, watchful, and people like dogs.

"I don't." A fourth voice spoke up from the corridor leading to the modified corvette's stateroom. "Bloody hate the damn things."

Ben stiffened slightly. "Morning sir, didn't realise you were up."

"How could I sleep with you yammering about the name of your company?" A tall, fair haired man wearing a dark blue jumpsuit ascended the stairs to the cockpit. "The Alliance isn't paying you to sit in the middle of nowhere and talk."

"Really, 'cos that seems to be exactly what they're doing, Mister Shepard, sir," the merc gestured at the blackness, then moved to tap the taller man on the chest. "Ain't a thing to be seen, especially not pirates."

The man's hand seized Ben's wrist and jerked downwards. "That's _Commander_ Shepard to you, Mr. Hislop. Commander Mackenzie Shepard, and you'd do well to remember that."

"Mack, please don't break Ben's arm," Eva didn't take her eyes of the navigation screen. "I still need him to carry all the shoes I'm going to buy once we get back to Earth."

"Shoes?" Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Well, when I say 'shoes', I mean one of those new mass accelerator pistols," the female merc explained. "But now that I think about it..."

Commander Shepard released the grip he had on Ben. "Jack, did you go out of your way to hire idiots?"

"Only the finest idiots money could buy," the other man answered laconically. "Got them both after they discharged from the Marines. Ben's ex-Force Recon, and Eva did time with Colonel Mulder in Sixth Regiment's intelligence section."

"Hell, wish I'd known I was gonna be doing wetwork with bootnecks," Shepard scoffed. "Remember Mexico City? First Battalion just _had_ to charge in before we gave the word..."

"And we did the damn job for you!" Ben stood face to face with him.

Shepard eyed him with a tad more respect. "You were there?"

"I was there for all of the Reynosa War," Ben answered proudly. "Mexico, Columbia, and the start of Brazil."

"Rio?"

"Took a bullet in the stomach first day out, they shipped me back to Bethesda." The merc suddenly became quieter. "Lost some good buddies in that city."

"Yeah, me too," Shepard paused. "Well, if you know how to use a gun, that'll probably be enough for this run. Sepi's getting careless, moving his crews closer to Shanxi. We catch them out in the open, you take care of the heavy work, while I get a bead on where he's holed up..."

"Transmission coming in!" Eva looked up in surprise. "It's from Shanxi!"

"They're not supposed to be contacting us," Jack angrily reached for the receiver switch. "They could give away our position."

"Wait!" Shepard grabbed his arm before it could reach the comms switch. "It could be important. Gurung's in charge of the op, he wouldn't break radio silence if he didn't deem it necessary."

Jack's finger halted. "If we receive this and our cover gets busted..."

"I'll assume responsibility, you'll still get paid," Shepard reached past him and flicked on the display. "Now let's hear the damn message."

_=Attention, all Alliance affiliated forces!=_ The comm unit blurted out. _=Rubicon Contingency has been declared, all Alliance flagged ships are to report to Shanxi for immediate re-deployment. We are under imminent threat from alien forces. I say again, Rubicon Contingency has been declared, Shanxi is under immediate threat from alien forces. All Alliance flagged ships are to report to Shanxi ASAP!=_

There was a sudden silence in the cockpit. Shepard grabbed Jack's shoulder. "We need to get to Shanxi."

"You don't need to tell me..." Jack began, but was interrupted by Ben.

"Are you kidding me?" The merc looked surprised. "What are we gonna do if Shanxi is getting hit by aliens? Three mercs and a fancy N7?"

Jack Harper suddenly looked very dangerous. "Alliance pays our bills, Ben. Now they need help. _Humans_ need our help. You scared?"

"Not scared..." Ben absent-mindedly touched the spot on his stomach that still bore the scar of a high velocity round. "Just...cautious, is all. We shouldn't rush in..."

"You want to put it to a vote? Fine, we'll put it to a vote!" Jack turned back to Mack and Eva. "All those in favour of going to Shanxi?"

He and Shepard immediately raised their hands. Eva paused for a second. She furrowed her brow with suspicion. "We do the job, and we get paid?"

Shepard retained his calm. "You get paid."

Her hand shot up to join theirs.

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"How go the repairs?" Admiral Fautan Xiliatus asked the crew master for the repair teams scrambling over the _Raptor's Fury_. "Will we be ready to move when the time comes to attack?"

The technician, a gangly turian that everyone simply called Veks, snorted at the question. "Admiral, my crews are all experts when it comes to patching battle damage, but this is beyond what we're used to. It's like a baby thresher maw got chewed up by a nathak. I have some observers on the frigate that rammed you. Its weapons systems and structural integrity are astounding. I wouldn't put a Volka-class up against one and expect the Volka to live."

"I am not asking about their ship," Fautan asked with exaggerated patience. "I am asking about mine."

Veks eyed him balefully. "She's old, she's tired, and you're landing bay has lost all structural integrity. We have to re-arrange the internal compensators, but you should be ready for the major offensive in about twelve hours.

Fautan nodded with satisfaction. "Excellent. What about weapons?"

"Can't help you on that front," Veks informed him. "I'm a civilian contractor, my company specialises in damage control, not weaponry."

The officer turned in surprise. "You don't handle weapons systems? I thought that was..."

"I withdrew from that field after a Hierarchy vessel fired on, and destroyed, the ship carrying my wife and five other members of the Nolias science team, all thought to be carrying the plague virus up from that damn planet," the tech glared at him. "I have neither the time or energy to put weapons in the hands of those too foolish to use them wisely. Please keep that in mind, Admiral, when you embark on this little adventure."

"You would call a mission like this, an 'adventure'?" Fautan was baffled.

"I think Captain Xiliatus would have thought the same," Veks turned away with contempt. "Admiral Xiliatus seems honoured by it."

Fautan continued on his inspection, troubled by the engineer's words. He was sure that the actions to be taken were necessary...he was absolutely sure.

_And yet, half an hour ago, you weren't._

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Desolas pulled the hood off the prisoner's head. "Good day...I think that is expression? Your language complicated...but I suppose you feel same way."

The prisoner glared back at him, her (or was it his?) eyes glaring back at him. She hadn't said a word since she was transferred from the _Fury _to the _Tyreaus. _No matter, Desolas was used to getting what he wanted. Not through torture...not unless it was absolutely necessary. But he had the gift of a smooth tongue, an invaluable asset in an age where honour was becoming a precious commodity, and battle glory all but unattainable.

"Clarissa Hobbs," he read from the two engraved pieces of metal in front of him. "Ensign, SSV Leyte Gulf. I...not know what...mean, whether name is Leyte, served aboard the Hobbs, if Ensign is some noble title. Our computer systems can access...compare words...nouns and verbs...not always match. As goes conversation...better words come."

She continued to glare at him, an unfathomable hatred on her face. Desolas was glad. Hatred could be a useful tool to an interrogator. "Why..._are_ you angry, Leyte? We stopped great..._a _great tragedy."

"My name is Hobbs," she burst out. "Clarissa Hobbs. You have no right to keep me here. I've done nothing wrong!"

Desolas kept a quiet smile to himself. He had her now. If she kept talking, she'd never be able to stop. That was the only truly safe way to conduct yourself in an interrogation...to pretend that you were mute. The hard part was convincing a prisoner to talk at all, once they were talking it was all over.

"You...shoot at us, C-larissa," Desolas explained slowly. "We need go to war."

"You shot first," the comms officer spat back. "We defended ourselves when fired upon. We're not murderers, we don't attack without warning."

"I'm...no believe you," Desolas cursed the inefficient translator. This was far more complicated than he would have liked. "I good general...will...bring swift peace."

"Bring swift peace?"

"Much...swift peace," Desolas confirmed...then paused to consider his words. Spirits, the turian expression sounded all wrong in the human form. For a turian, bringing swift peace was a phrase used to describe a shock and awe invasion, with the locals usually being too stunned to do much more than gasp as the turians made their assault. "War, in your language. Much war."

"General Williams will stop you..." Clarissa jerked against her shackles. "Shanxi may be small, but..."

"Shanxi!" Desolas pounced on the word. "That is the name of your homeworld?"

For a second, Hobbs was tempted to ask him why he thought Shanxi was the homeworld. The next second, she realised that this alien bastard hadn't picked up everything on the Leyte Gulf's partially fried computers. He thought Shanxi was Earth. Damn good news for her...and for Earth, but not for the poor saps on Shanxi. She closed her mouth, and lowered her eyes back down to the floor.

Desolas couldn't help but feel pleased. So it was confirmed, they really had found their homeworld, and it was defended by a man named 'Wil-li-ums'. Now, would come the hard part. Conducting an invasion in such a short amount of time was hard. With the limited resources available, its difficulty multiplied a hundredfold. And the need for total secrecy made it almost unthinkable.

And yet, Desolas believed it could be done. He believed that, because he looked at them, looked straight into one's eyes, and knew instinctively that they were weak. These hu-mons were weak to their very bones. Clever with their technology, perhaps, but not equals to be treated with respect. They were clever pyjaks to be wary of, but not to be feared. They were not the match of a true turian soldier, and even less so for an entire legion with a fleet to support it.


	8. Councils of War

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Eight: Councils of War

I don't own BioWare

**HIERARCHY DREADNAUGHT **_**TYREAUS**_

**STATION KEEPING AT RELAY 314**

Ensign Clarissa Hobbs felt the hood pulled off her head again, and squinted as a bright light shone into them. Once more, an edgy, rumbling voice tickled at the corners of her ears. She didn't know how long this had been going on. The communications expert was reasonably sure that this was the sixth time she had been interrogated, but that was a fuzzy guess. She was too tired and dehydrated to try and make a more thorough analysis

"Ensign Hobbs, I 'hope you are well'?" Desolas tried out one of the new phrases that the translators had pieced together for him. The intelligence officers had been lucky. The enemy ship's computers had contained sufficient information for the salarian built language programmes to piece together an almost complete translation matrix.

The human language was a strange one. In form and pronunciation, it resembled the talk of the asari, mixed slightly with that of the batarians. The combination of bulbous lips and a soft tongue probably had something to do with that. Desolas hadn't noticed it till one of the guards pointed it out, but the human prisoner was remarkably similar to an asari. The General hadn't believed it at first, but upon examination of the face and chest area, he was forced to conclude that the guard was correct. Desolas had always assumed that asari looked like blue female turians, but now that he noticed it...

"Come to tell me how you're going to crush my homeworld again?" Hobbs tried her best to sound casual, even has her heartrate accelerated. "I've only heard it about five times, now."

"Seven times," Desolas corrected her. He was now fairly confident that she was a female. The resemblance to an asari, combined with the upper pitch, made it a logical conclusion. In addition, she was as irritating as most of the asari he had encountered in his life, and they were typically classed as female. He wasn't particularly interested in the textbook definition of mono-genders. "Would you like some water?"

Hobbs nodded silently, sipping with unbridled thirst as Desolas held up a cup filled with the clear liquid. When it was empty, Desolas withdrew it. "Would you like something to eat?"

At first she stayed silent...she didn't want anything from him. She almost wished that she hadn't drunk the water. But as her stomach rumbled, she stared at the ration bar that the turian was holding...and nodded again.

Once she had finished, Desolas stood up. "And now, we should get to business. I want to know everything about your homeworld. Locations of defence platforms, population numbers, likely resistance. You should be aware that your survival depends on the accuracy of your information."

"How do you even understand me?" Clarissa hissed. "Our mouths aren't even fucking alike! How do you know what I'm saying?"

"Auto-translation matrix, highly advanced. Definitely beyond your understanding." Desolas crouched in front of her. "I don't get your full range of emotions, of course, and neither do the idioms and slang of our languages translate. Such technology is ten to fifteen years away. But for the moment, we can understand each other. And now, my information?"

A trained soldier would have simply shut up then and there, or told a lie simple enough to maintain. Captured Special Forces troopers would often lie about their units, making sure to paint themselves as medics or isolated reconnaissance scouts, auxiliary troops who wouldn't be expected to know classified information. Specially trained intelligence operatives would have constructed a much more elaborate lie, conducting psychological warfare on their interrogator, even as it was applied to them.

Hobbs was not a trained soldier, or an operative. She was a comms officer, fresh out of the academy. She was isolated, she was terrified, and so she made the mistake that all rookies made on instinct. She became aggressive. Lashing out with her head, she managed to catch Desolas full on in the face, sending the General reeling at the impact.

The turian reached up and rubbed at the sore plates with mild irritation, noticing with an uncharacteristic smirk that the human had damaged herself more than him, splitting the skin on her forehead open. Blood flowed down the sides of that...nose...thing, while she stared at him with murder in her eyes.

"I'm not...going to tell you..." Hobbs breathed heavily. "A fucking thing! You understand me, you freak?"

Desolas folded his arms in front of him, in a turian parade rest. "I understand three things. You are excessively brave, astoundingly stupid...and you have something to hide. I can help you free yourself of these things, but it will take some time."

"Oh yeah?" Hobbs tried to summon up all her defiance. "How?

"You will find out," Desolas informed her, then placed the hood back over her face. "I will return tomorrow. Get some rest."

Hobbs waited until the door slammed shut, and enough time had passed that the alien would be far away. Sure she was alone, she let a few panicked tears seep out of her eyes, then took several deep breaths to get herself back under control. She didn't know how long she could keep this up...if they tortured her, she'd break. She didn't know what to do.

She wished that she remembered how to pray.

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Admiral Jhirx examined the camera footage. "Your interrogation does not seem to be yielding anything useful, General. We commence our assault in three hours, do you think that you might accelerate the process?"

"Interrogation is an art form, Admiral, not the brutish exercise that you consider it," Desolas stood next to her on the bridge of the _Tyreaus._ "She is hiding something from me, something so important that she is willing to endure this much to keep it secret."

"Do you advise me to delay the attack?"

"He does not." A new voice spoke from the back of the room. It was similar to the Generals, with the same pattern of highs and lows, distinct to one particular turian clan. "That is my brother for you, his whole mindset laid bare. He may suspect something is amiss, and will charge in anyway, unworried about the danger."

"Lieutenant Arterius," Jhirx casually turned to the newest arrival from Seventh Legion. "Your brother may have put you on his personal staff, but you are not a part of mine. You will keep your tongue still when on my bridge."

"My most sincere apologies," the subaltern's tone was anything but apologetic. "But, with your Admiral's pardon, I have earned my place on the General's staff, and I..."

"Have you considered the possibility?" Jhirx inquired. "That I do not care? Something to think about, Lieutenant. Now, General..."

"I crave your pardon again, Admiral," Saren interrupted. "But I only came up here for one thing."

"And that is?" Jhirx wished that the ancient protocols regarding insubordination were still in place. She could have shot the insolent officer dead on the spot, and no one would have twitched a mandible.

"To inform you that Primarch Valern's dreadnaught is thirty minutes away, and he wishes to speak with you once he arrives." Saren's tone did not waver. "He instructed me to deliver the message personally."

"You have fulfilled your duties, Lieutenant," the Admiral informed him. "Now you may leave."

"I will leave with him," Desolas nodded courteously to Jhirx. "There is still much planning to be done for the invasion. We will concern ourselves with those matters."

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"Jhirx is a dangerous enemy to have, brother," Desolas informed the younger Arterius. "It will not bode well for your aspirations to the Spectres, if she feels that you slighted her."

"You think her more impressive than she is," Saren observed. "I wonder why that is? Could you have been guilty of a little indiscretion, sir?"

"I am your General before I am your brother," Desolas reminded him sharply. "Jhirx is as vindictive as she is brilliant. You are on track to becoming the youngest turian ever accepted into the Spectres. One cross word from an officer of her standing, and all your work will have been for nothing."

"It was unwise to involve her in this operation," the younger turian shot back. "She could prove to be an unstable element. You should have proposed this plan to Admiral Sigida, he would have been a much more co-operative ally."

"Captain Xiliatus belonged to Jhirx, and he made the discovery. I could no more have kept Jhirx out of this enterprise, then I could convince a krogan that the genophage was a just and wise decision."

"Perhaps it would be better to eliminate both of them, and then allow Primarch Valern to direct the operation?"

This time, Desolas pulled to a halt. "Your devotion to the task is admirable, but your methods are not. Must I remind you a thousand times? If you kill those who you call friend..."

"Then soon, all will call you enemy," Saren completed the sentence. Still two months till his official adult status was achieved, his immaturity was sometimes evident, despite his successes in the field. "Why is it you feel the need to constantly shout the maxims at me, General?"

"Because you never listen," Desolas growled, lightly cuffing Saren on the back of his fringe, in the manner of brothers. "Come, you've had a long journey from Palaven. You need to eat before the Primarch arrives. Later, I have someone I'd like you to meet."

"Your prisoner?" Saren's left mandible lowered slightly in sarcasm. "Hardly a riveting social introduction."

"Perhaps, but you are more adept than I am when it comes to this type of conversation."

"That's because I don't feel the need to talk my prisoners to death?" Saren suggested. "I would wager a flask of P'lak's best, that she responds better to my methods, than to yours."

"If I had any hope of winning, I would take you up on that bet," Desolas threw an arm around his brother's shoulder. "But we will drink anyway, to commemorate the start of this glorious campaign, however short it may be."

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**EMERGENCY COMMAND CENTRE**

**OUTREACH CITY, SHANXI**

**0730 HOURS, JUNE 12****TH****, 2157**

"I'm sorry, sirs," Corporal Henkshaw spoke with exaggerated politeness to the two men in front of him. "But the General and his staff are busy at the moment. If you'd like to make an appointment, you can come back when there isn't a bloomin' alien invasion on our doorsteps."

"That's why we're here," the one in uniform tried to explain. "Just tell him that Commander Shepard has arrived and needs to..."

"I don't give a tinker's cuss who you are, or what you need," Henkshaw replied shortly. "I suggest you make yourself..."

The one in expensive civilian clothes let out a huff of impatience. "I really don't have time for this."

Both of the men shoved Henkshaw out of the way, pushing past him to the small boardroom behind him. Inside, all was organised chaos. Intelligence officers trying to piece together footage from the deep space probes, tactical officers co-ordinating elements of the garrison into pre-planned battle positions, and at the heart of it all, like a spider stuck in the centre of a web, was General Williams.

"Well, would you look at this?" Jack Harper whistled in surprise. "Looks like that distress call wasn't exaggerating."

"Shepard! Harper!" A voice called out above the chatter. "Over here!"

"Colonel Gurung?" Shepard pushed through the crowd. "What the hell's going on? We were station keeping at checkpoint Zulu when we got your message about..."

"Yes, the invasion," the Gurkha nodded, passing each of them a pad. "These are the initial briefing sheets, memorise them. Full staff meeting in five minutes."

He left the two men standing alone, each of them staring at the document that read like the start of a bad science fiction story.

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"Primarch Valern," Jhirx nodded courteously as she assumed her position at the front of the briefing room. "I trust your trip was not overly tiring."

"Ah yes, 'tiring'," Valern barked out a laugh. "One learns as a diplomat, that there is no such thing. There is simply the next stack of paperwork. I sometimes long for the simplicity of my days as a company commander. At least then, I could be reasonably sure that I wasn't being lied to by my subordinates."

"I understand," Jhirx possessed a measure of admiration for the politician. Valern was as power hungry as any other Primarch, but he was a good deal more honest, especially with the military. "I will try not to waste your time. You are aware of our proposal?"

"To speedily neutralise a potentially dangerous species, and bring them into the Hierarchy as a client race," Valern nodded. "A bold plan, and one which I threw my full support behind. It was not easy convincing the Assembly to withhold this information from the Council, but I believed it well worth the effort."

"If it succeeds," Desolas spoke from beside Jhirx. "We will all reap the benefits. Let us not be secretive about what we hope to achieve."

"Indeed, I had no intention of being indirect." Valern smiled reassuringly. "We are rendering a great service to the galaxy, and it is only fair that we expect some return for what we give. This conflict will mean advancement, certainly, but it will also mean a shift in how the galaxy perceives us. Palaven has been far too gentle with the treatment of threats like these, and for far too long have they muzzled the might of our fleets. This will be a demonstration of our true strength. After today, that which has long been accepted as the order of things will never be the same again."

Desolas could have chuckled at the expression on Saren's face. He was drinking in the Primarch's rhetoric like a mammal consuming its mother's milk. Desolas was a past master at making speeches, but unlike Valern, he never made them for the sake of hearing his own voice. Still, he was only young. He would learn in time.

"We have the battle plans drawn up," Jhirx indicated a stack of pads in front of Valern. "Admiral Xiliatus will lead four cruiser phalanx units in the initial strike. I mean to neutralise their entire orbital grid with one strike. If they do not succeed entirely, then a wave of heavy fighters flying behind the cruisers will eliminate the rest of the grid with plasma torpedoes."

"Estimated casualties?"

"At least one cruiser from the first wave, and up to twenty fighters. We believe their average defence platform to be equivalent to a Mark Two Freciat. Not exactly state of the art, but sturdy and reliable."

"Yes, I think some of the outer colonies are still using them," Valern looked intrigue. "It says hear that you estimate the population to be about two billion?"

"It fits in with the size of the planet, the nature of the forces we have already seen, and the level of technology they have displayed," Saren spoke up. "Military forces should total no more than a few million troops."

Valern's mandibles raised in alarm. "A few million? One legion is hardly enough to subdue such a number."

"No, but a fleet settled in for orbital bombardment is." Desolas interjected. "The goal of my legion is not to actively subdue them, but to overrun their command centres, retrieve information databases, and make it impossible for them to co-ordinate for an effective resistance. That is why our first assault on the surface of the planet will be with fighters and commandoes. I have the Twelfth Shock Phalanx preparing for insertion, with Commander Vakarian at their head. Her mission will be to eliminate their top military and civilian leadership. It is likely that at the moment our forces hit the surface, they will gather together in one area, like all leaders do at times of crisis."

"Can she find them?"

"Commander Vakarian has some prior experience with missions like these. She knows the doctrine backwards. Find the area with the greatest amount of radio transmissions, and hunt until you are successful."

Valern paused, giving the impression that he was deep in thought. Desolas saw right through him. The politician was flexing his muscles, giving them all the impression that he was still the one on whom things depended...and how easily he could snatch it all away. It irked the turian general. Power games, at least, power games of this sort, had no place on a turian vessel.

Finally, Valern spoke. "Your plan is bold, Admiral. I compliment all of you. You bring honour to your names and uniforms. I am giving my final approval. Commence your attack when ready."

As they stood, Saren whispered to Desolas beneath his breath. "Strange, is it not, brother? As soldiers we are as hard and unbending as krogan. But as politicians, we are as conniving and deceitful as the worst batarian smuggler."

Observing Valern move closer to Jhirx, the ever polite smile spreading across his white facial tattoos, Desolas could not help but agree. He had a vision for the Turian Hierarchy, as did Jhirx and Saren. Thankfully, that vision did not include men like Valern. But until that far off, distant plan came to fruition, he was required to devote his every waking minute to ensure that all was to Valern's satisfaction.

Today, there would be battle. Politics could wait while there was a war to be fought.

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"Attention!" Lieutenant Colonel Gurung's voice thundered, bringing the whole chattering room to a stiffening silence. All eyes focused on General Williams as he entered the room, and each of the officers took heart at his appearance. Unruffled, without so much as a button out of place, and an iron strength in his jaw, the commander of Shanxi's military forces took the head of the table. In his or her heart, every man and woman knew that his appearance was a deception, that he'd been working just as hard as they had, and lost just as much sleep over the past few days. But he still looked as though he could smack down a bull, and that was important. What strength and courage his subordinates lacked, Williams could provide from his own abundant supply.

It was generally accepted that there were three types of good staff officers. You had the Pattons of history, mavericks who excelled at battle, and who led through sheer force of willpower. You had the MacArthurs and the Montgomeries, who planned, picked and chose their fights, encouraging their soldier's confidence in them through victory. And then you the Bradleys, the Morseheads, the Monashes. Quietly confident, utterly fair, slow to anger, and every bit as brilliant.

Williams was one of the last. He never blustered, never threatened, and knew his limitations. He would never be an exceptional battlefield commander. That, and a lack of friends in the UNAS government had halted his ascension up the chain of command at Colonel back in the UNAS Army. But he knew how to construct an exceptional battle. Many generals were gamblers, but Williams played chess. And any battle on Shanxi would be a chess match, not a poker game. Except in this chess match, Williams was playing without his rooks, no queen and with only half of his pawns.

"Ladies and gentlemen, be seated," the General nodded politely at the assembled officers. "I'm sure you're all eager to brief your units, so I'll try not to keep you too long. To those of you who just arrived, thank you for your haste. We need every second we have."

Jack leaned closer to Shepard. "Same old Williams. Surprised he's not serving scones and tea?"

Shepard held a finger to his lips, then drew it across his throat. Harper got the message, as General Williams continued speaking.

"...unfortunately everything you read in your briefing sheets is one hundred percent accurate, but also limited. We're severely under-manned in the intelligence section, and all we've got is what was viewed during space battles. We think the Leyte Gulf was able to board one of the enemy ships, but they didn't transmit any camera footage or useful data after wards." Williams folded his arms in front of him. "I can tell you only one thing. Their tech is compatible with ours, but decades more advanced. We can fight them, but nothing short of divine intervention is going to let us beat them with our current garrison."

Colonel Borodin of the 3rd Incident Response Team raised his hand. The ex-Spetznatz operative spoke English with an almost perfect pronunciation. "Rules of engagement, sir?"

"All enemy forces are to be treated as hostile, and to be engaged with extreme prejudice," Williams replied. "Taking prisoners is a secondary priority, and only to be done in cases where no risk is posed to our men. Colonel Gurung, over to you."

"Yes, sir," the Gurkha stood, straightening his uniform jacket as he stood. "Gentlemen, we've drawn up our battle plans for this particular festivity. We've calculated down to the last man how to conduct this fight on our terms. This plan, of course, will most likely survive about five minutes into the battle before the situation changes, but it will set a base line for what we hope to accomplish."

A holographic representation of Shanxi was projected into the centre of the room. Gurung indicated the location of Outreach City. "As you can see, we are both blessed and cursed in this struggle. Blessed, because we have a limited number of civilians to evacuate and guard. Cursed, because we can ill spare the men to evacuate and guard them. For that task, we'll be using the colonial militia. They know the people better than the regulars, and they have more experience with this type of thing. In twenty four hours, we'll have about three quarters of Shanxi's population safely tucked away in bunkers and safe zones down in the Weyata Mountains. The rest of the population will have to be hidden in the emergency shelters underneath Outreach. They're uncomfortable and cramped but there's sufficient room for another hundred thousand people down there, provided we can work the spacing right."

"What about the rest of them?" Colonel Marks of the 13th Armoured Regiment looked disturbed. "We can leave a hundred and fifty thousand civilians to die."

"We recognise that," Williams spoke up. "Which is why we'll try and free up more mag-lev trains to get them down to the mountains. We have warehouses down there for pre-positioned equipment. Your tankers have already moved out, so there should enough room."

"A warehouse?" Marks protested. "Sir, that won't guarantee their safety. Those buildings are juicy targets for anyone with half a brain."

"I know that," Williams replied with a quiet steel in his voice. "Did you happen to have a better plan?"

The tank officer glanced at Gurung, then back at the General. No...a planning team that good didn't make mistakes like that. The civilians in the warehouses wouldn't be kept from all harm, but at least they wouldn't be sitting out in the open when the invaders arrived. "No sir. I can't think of anything that'd help us."

"Thank you, Colonel," Gurung turned back to the map. "Back when the colonisation effort first started, the General was of the belief that a single garrison strongpoint would never work. Too easy to just surround it and wear it down. Neither is a scattered effort a viable solution, they would simply hunt us down individually. What was needed were multiple strongholds, each one capable of drawing the enemy's attention, while our scout and deep strike units could play merry hell with them. That battle plan has been rotated and updated every day since it started."

"Our main focus," Williams interjected. "Is to keep their attention away from the civilians, until it is no longer feasible to do so. We've scattered our air and surveillance assets, but we're confident that with the Adaptive Strike Fighters and the Navy's Raiders at our disposal, we should be able to maintain sporadic air cover. Thirteenth Armoured will be divided. Half of your tanks and infantry fighting vehicles will remain down at Weyata, holding in reserve until we need them. The other half will take position in Outreach, Katyan, and Oros. That will give us the heavy firepower we need to sustain the fighting in the cities. Let me be clear, this cannot be a conventional war. There is every indication that we will be outnumbered and outgunned."

"We fight as guerrillas," Pressly noted with satisfaction. "Hit and run."

"Which is why Fourteenth Recon will be primarily responsible for holding Outreach," Gurung noted. "You've trained your men to fight as small, independent units. Make sure they're well briefed. They'll be operating on limited supplies, limited ammunition and limited communication."

"Seventy First Light Infantry and Sixty Second Mechanized Infantry will loan assets to support the battle in Outreach," Williams nodded at Colonel Jones and Colonel Beckman. "But you will be responsible for Katyan and Oros. We need to divide their attention and keep it divided for two weeks. By that time, our fleet will be here, and we'll show these bastards exactly who they're dealing with."

Commodore Roberts stood. "Navy assets in orbit will try and hold the enemy off for as long as possible. We have several corvette groups, and even a few frigates to spare, but our primary strength is our orbital defence platforms. With them, we have a real chance at staving them off. If we can destroy a few troop transports, we can even make your jobs a little easier. But we should be prepared for infiltration and spearhead units that make it past our guns."

General Williams waited for Roberts to take a seat. "Command and control centres will be established here, and at Weyata. If our position becomes untenable, we will evacuate using the underground mag-lev corridors, and continue to fight from the mountains. I cannot stress how important mobility will be in this fight. Our opponents will dictate the start of this battle, but we will control how it proceeds. I'm going to have to ask you to destroy all classified documents when you return to your headquarters. I've ordered that wipe programmes be prepared for our databases in case of cyber-warfare. Everything about us is to be kept secret. We can't let them know our manpower, our relay routes, or planetary locations."

He took a deep breath. "I know this is asking a lot of you, but I will need you to withhold some of what you've learned here from your men. Don't play down the enemy's strength, but try and put a positive spin on our position. The defences have to hold, a lot of people are depending on us. Dismissed."

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The unit commanders had dispersed quietly, with none of the usual chit chat or catch up that was commonplace at staff meetings. The gravity of the situation was far too weighty to let anyone focus on anything else but their part in the battle to come.

As Joaquim sank back into his desk chair, his eyes strayed to the pistol belt lying across the desk. Inside the holster was his personal sidearm, a short barrelled, pearl handled, silver plated Colt .45 Model 1911 A1 handgun. Standard issue to general officers in the old US Army, and a tradition that had carried on to the UNAS. When he had left the Pentagon to take up his new rank and posting with the Systems Alliance Marine Corps, it had been presented to him by the outgoing Chief of Operations, Major General Ted Spillman.

"_I'd be the last man in the world to deny you a decent paperweight. Never even had to load the thing, let alone go shooting. It's not even particularly lucky. But it'll keep your files in place on a windy day, that much I can guarantee you."_

Reluctantly, Williams opened the drawer, and stared at the box inside. Specialised .45 calibre ACP rounds, enough to fill five clips. The Alliance didn't produce much ammunition of its type, they preferred the mass produced rounds for the HCP .50 handguns.

Removing the box, Joaquim took five slim single stack magazines from beneath it, checking each one for rust or signs of decay. If the spring on a magazine was even slightly faulty, it could cause a stoppage. While a staff officer, there was enough infantryman left in Williams that he would not tolerate a flaw in his weaponry.

Pushing eight rounds into position, he pushed the clip into the antique handgun, though keeping the chamber clear.

"Sir?" Colonel Gurung entered. "You've got some visitors."

Looking over his Chief of Staff's shoulder, Williams saw two figures behind. The first one he smiled at. "Shepard, good to see you."

He frowned as he saw the other one. "Harper? What the hell are you doing here?"

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A/N: **Anyone else remember that conversation between the turian, the salarian and the human on Ilium in ME2? How each was convinced that the asari dancer resembled their species? I think that's because each species focuses on what the asari most have in common with them. With humans, it's the face and body. With turians, it'd obviously be the fringe. So that's why I think that initially, a turian wouldn't see any similarity in between an asari and a human. It'd have to be pointed out to them.**

**Also, Saren being on Desolas' advisory staff is canon, from the ME comics.**


	9. No Parlay

The Siege of Shanxi

I don't own BioWare

Chapter Nine: No Parlay

**EMERGENCY COMMAND CENTRE**

**OUTREACH CITY, SHANXI**

**2130 HOURS, JUNE 12****TH****, 2157**

"Is that anyway to greet an old friend?" Jack Harper protested with a cheerful bark of laughter. "Not like you at all General, you're always one to give a man a second chance."

"Men? Absolutely. Not psychopathic lowlifes who I personally had court-martialled for conduct unbecoming an officer," Williams' eyes narrowed. "Not moronic First Lieutenants who had a nasty habit of water-boarding POWs behind my back. If I'd had just a little more evidence, you'd have received a heck of a lot more than a dishonourable discharge."

Jack shrugged. "You did me a favour, really. The private sector was a little more...flexible. Payed a lot better, too."

"I'm sure it did," Williams leaned forward. "We had a saying in the Pentagon about you. It's a little dim in my memory now, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with 'guns for hire', 'illegal warfare', and 'scorched earth'."

"Nice to know that people say such nice things about me," the mercenary looked a little bored. "Say what you want, but that little war in Brazil could have been a lot worse if I hadn't helped the SEALs finish their mission."

"Yeah? As bad as that cartel war you helped ignite in Mexico and Colombia? Fucking hell! Three million civilians caught in the crossfire, did you even stop to think..."

"If we all stopped to think," Jack stood up. "There'd be precious little time for action."

Disgust was the only emotion present on the General's face. "You're quite a piece of work, I trust you realise that?"

"I don't think you'll ever stop reminding me of it."

The frown on his face relaxing slightly, Williams turned to Shepard. "Your arrival is fortuitous, Commander, regardless of the company you keep. I could use everyman I can get. How many did you bring?"

"Ten mercs, including Harper, plus two other N7s. Our ship arrived first, the rest of them will be here by tomorrow."

"Which Sevens?"

"You remember that ex-SAS captain? Frankie McMillan? He passed the program last month. I've also got Wade Brandy on board."

"I remember Brandy," Williams nodded, pleasantly surprised. "Delta Force, First Squadron. He still limping?"

"Not all the time," Shepard indicated the map on the wall. "Solid battle plan. You copying some of Waziri's tactics?"

"He evaded capture for almost a year, the Chinese must have thrown half their army into those caves looking for him." Williams knew that Shepard would see the patterns. "Waziri never had the forces to break out of the Afghanistan DMZ, he knew that he'd get crushed between our planes and the PLA. But he ruled the roost in that hellhole until we got him when he was sleeping in Kabul. It's not a perfect tactic, but I'm hoping it'll buy us just enough time...if we pray hard enough."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, also pray that they're more concerned with profitable conquest than punitive action," Williams' jaw was set. "This plan falls to shit if they're only coming to burn us."

The meeting lasted for only a few more minutes. Harper stuck around long enough to arrange his pay, and make some equipment requests. As Shanxi's obstinate sun began its daily descent on the horizon, Shepard and Williams found themselves alone. Reaching for his desk, Williams pulled a half empty bottle from the bottom drawer.

"Black Douglas?" Shepard raised an eyebrow. "What happened to the case of Blue Label we liberated from General Taringi's personal stock?"

"I save my best Johnny Walker for flag officers and retirement," Joaquim chuckled. "It was a fair swap, I gave you Taringi's Desert Eagle, didn't I? Nice weapon, that one. Fifty cal, gold finish, engraved grip and barrel."

"Yeah, and the trigger spring gave out the first time I tried to use it," Mackenzie smiled briefly. "Hannah laughed her ass off. I gave it to her to use as a desk ornament."

"How is Hannah?" Joe finished pouring the glasses. Neither officer took ice with their Scotch. Gurung had spent far too long grooming them in proper British drinking for them to consider committing that cardinal sin against good liquor. "I heard the birth went well?"

"Nine pound baby boy," Mack simply grinned with pride. "Right in the medical centre of Admiral Grissom's flagship. Named him John in the Old Man's honour."

"Bet he was tickled pink by that one," the General sipped the whiskey appreciatively. "How's the kid getting on?"

"Spacer life is rough on him," Mack admitted. "I get back pretty often, but there's so much work to be done out here, I miss out on a lot. Missed his second birthday, but I was there to see him walk for the first time."

"Pretty soon, you're gonna find out the unfortunate truth of parentage," Williams leaned closer. "You spend the first year getting them to walk and talk...and spend the next twenty getting them to sit down and shut up."

Both of them shared a laugh at the semi-humorous joke. Dropping back onto his desk chair, Joaquim indicated Mack's N7 badge. "I guess you'll start him off on light weapons and introduce him to Muay Thai by the time he's six?"

"Not a chance," the N7's expression became deadly serious. "Dad and Grandma both lived this life. Three generations of service is enough. John Shepard is going to grow up and be a doctor or a lawyer. Maybe an explorer. There's plenty of adventure for young blood these days without tossing guns into the mix."

"I can appreciate that." Joaquim nodded. "Hell, I've got a grandkid on the way. I'm hoping by the time he or she reaches this world, there won't be any wars left to fight."

"I don't think there's a parent alive who doesn't hope for that," Mack replied wistfully. "We all live in hope that Plato was wrong."

"Plato?"

"Remember Ancient History? 'Only the dead have seen the end of war.'"

"Damn pessimist," Williams swirled his Scotch. "But at least we did our best to prove him wrong. All the wars in humanity's history, and we managed to overcome our differences and get this far out into space."

"Damn prophet if you ask me," Shepard countered. "Even after we got past our differences, there's people out there waiting to have a war with us. Only this time, we don't know who they are, and we don't know how to fight them."

"You scared?"

"I don't think you could find a man on this planet that isn't just a little bit cowed by all of this." Shepard finished the last of his drink. "I'll be scared right up until we find out how to kill these bastards."

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**HNV RAPTOR'S FURY**

**MOVING AWAY FROM RELAY 314**

"Sir, we have confirmation from the forward phalanx," Sub-Commander Tutmos turned to face Admiral Xiliatus. "All ships are secured at battle stations and prepared for the FTL jump to target. Fighters and dropships are also ready for deployment. Our shock units are prepared to seize and destroy all targets of value. Unit commanders have their battle plans, and all communications will be routed through to you, our other squadron commanders, and of course, to Admiral Jhirx."

"Good," Xiliatus tightened his grip on the arm of his command chair. "Get me Admiral Jhirx on the tactical channel."

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"You all have your orders," Jhirx looked at the images of her subordinates. "Engage their defences and cut a path for the dropships. We will obliterate their orbital units, grind these vermin beneath us, and beat them down when they rise."

Behind Jhirx, Valern and Desolas waited. The General's talons twitched slightly. The moment had come. No more speeches, no more waiting.

"Remember this day, little brother," Desolas murmured. "Today, everything changes."

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The turian order of battle was impressive. All ten squadrons of the Far Watching Fleet, each one consisting of twelve cruisers, eight wolfpacks of frigates, and dozens of corvettes. At the centre of the swarming vessels, the _Tyraeus_ presided like a Klixen in its next. To the left and right of the formation the older dreadnaughts _Caraxan_ and _Battle Seeker_ flanked their newer counterpart. Neither ship had fired their weapons in anger since the commencement of the Ilium ceasefire almost sixty years earlier.

Ten distinguished Quarter Admirals would be at the heads of the squadrons. Sakkish Molci, famed for his conquest of the batarian outpost on Torfan, a moon that the turians had later relinquished due to political pressure from the Citadel. Yaris Felx, the commander who's genius had netted the Hierarchy an easy victory at Renu. And S'Fal Oraka, the blind Admiral who saw more than most. Individually, they were fearsome, collectively, they were beyond terrifying.

With all the implacable fury of a hurricane, the armada began to accelerate. As one unit, the Far Watching Fleet activated their FTL drives, and shot toward their target. One lone planet, as vulnerable as a varren pup during the feeding season of a naklath.

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"General, I have a feeling that you're going to be very happy to see me," Gurung announced as he entered the room. "We've just had some new arrivals. Turns out, Admiral Grissom has been making some more recruitment requests of my old Regiment."

Williams and Shepard both looked behind the diminutive Lieutenant Colonel, and grinned as they saw what he had brought.

Four dark skinned men dressed in dark green camouflage uniforms stood behind him. Each rose no taller than a compact 5'9', wore a sandy brown beret, and carried a distinctive, curved knife on his belt.

"Allow me to introduce Captain Nawang Kapadia, Sergeant Major Chitrabahadur Thapa, Staff Sergeant Dalbahdur Chhetri, and Corporal Gopal Gurung, all formerly of His Majesty's Own Gurkha Rifles," Gurung was practically beaming. "On anti-piracy duties when they received our distress call."

Williams glanced at Shepard. "Well, Mack, it appears that the Gurkhas have well and truly arrived. We can't possibly lose now."

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**ORBITAL DEFENCE PLATFORM**

_**DARKO'S ENIGMA**_

**IN GEO-SYNCHRONOUS ORBIT ABOVE SHANXI**

Dale resisted the urge to prop his feet up on the console and light up a cigarette. Part of him resisted because he knew that he had to keep watching the LADAR screens in case a bogey came into contact, but the rest of him resisted because of the unexpected new arrivals in his command centre. Three Navy Service Chiefs were operating the consoles with him, the swabbies were acting as air traffic controllers for the sudden influx of aerial traffic around Shanxi.

Overnight, the planet's defences had increased from one squadron of X-25 Raiders, to three. Fifteen corvettes and three frigates were also holding position around the defence platforms. Dale knew, deep in his heart, that his quiet life had just vanished in a puff of smoke, but outside that deep place, he was actually more than a little bit excited. Unease had faded after a while, now he just found himself more than a little chuffed to be part of the massive readiness operation.

Inside every man, no matter how much he wanted to dismiss it, was the kid who grew up reading adventure books and longing to be like the impulsive, dashing heroes inside. Dale knew himself to be no John Wayne, but he was currently sitting on top of more firepower than The Duke had ever commanded, and he was ready to press a button and send those fire and forget missiles arcing away at a moment's notice.

Of course, he was also learning the other major truth about adventuring, that it could get pretty damn boring. All he was doing was waiting, the coiled up excitement in his gut ready to spring out at any moment. He needed to do something to relieve the tension.

Looking to his left, he noticed the Asian featured Chief was looking equally bored. "So...where you from?"

The Chief didn't answer immediately. Dale decided to guess. "Beijing? Shanghai? Hong Kong?"

The Chief's stare suddenly turned frosty. Dale realised he must have made a mistake. Dammit, geography wasn't his strongpoint. "Tokyo?"

Speaking in a strong West Coast accent, the Chief replied coldly. "I was born and raised in San Diego, asshole."

Dale chose to shut up.

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"Colonel Oraka, we are closing on the target," Lieutenant Commander Lacriss Vakarian entered the command centre of the Colkak-class landing vessel. Containing enough space to land three battalions and their equipment, the Colkak's would be the primary method of insertion for the rest of the legion. "My phalanx is ready for battle."

Colonel Septimus Oraka, Commander of Advanced Operations for the Legion, was already at his console. Grandson of the famed Admiral S'Fal Oraka, Septimus was a traditional commander, he earned the loyalty of his troops by not losing battles. His natural ease with tactics made him someone for whom promotion was rapidly forthcoming.

"Lacriss, remember," he looked up from his own console. "We are after prisoners. Military and civilian leadership. Jhirx might want a bloodbath, but I would rather this be a surgical operation."

Surgical, precise, neat. These were words that Septimus drilled into his Phalanx commanders. The need to kill a target without excessive collateral damage was an alien concept to the turians. There was no such thing as a turian civilian in a combat zone, since all turians knew how to operate a rifle since childhood, and could form effective resistance units given half a chance. But Septimus recognised the need for troops capable of operating in atmospheres where stacked bodies would not only be morally unacceptable, but gravely dishonourable.

But as good as Septimus was, Lacriss Vakarian knew he was wrong this time. This wasn't one of his hostage rescue operations, this was war. It would be war till the last shot was fired. Turian soldiers were always precise, but they could be precise in a very broad manner. They didn't discriminate with the targets whose lives were precisely ended by precise headshots. The time for mercy had ended with the shots fired at Relay 314. Higher ranked officers than herself would decide the outcome of this fight. Her duty was to win her part of it, and to win in such a manner that would ensure her own safe return to her family, still waiting for her on the Citadel.

She was ready for war.

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Dale decided to try his luck with one of the other Service Chiefs. This one looked more friendly, like he'd be good to hang out with. "So where are you from?"

"Originally?" The Chief looked up. "I was a comms tech with the UNAS Marines. Forward operations, I sorted out airstrikes and stuff like that. Quite the adventurer back in my day."

"What happened?"

"What happened?" The Chief shrugged. "To this day, I can't figure it out. One day I'm just hiking with my platoon over the Hindu Kush, then next I'm getting airlifted back to Bagram with an arrow in my knee."

"Wait...you were an adventurer till you took an arrow in the knee?" Dale frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."

.

"Trust me, I know," the Chief turned back to his console. "Best I can figure, someone must have been using some kind of tactical bow or crossbow. But it put a stop to my running, let me tell you. So..."

The proximity alarms flared for the second time in a week. Something not matching up to Systems Alliance EM signatures had just crossed the threshold. They all knew the drill. Dale's hand slammed down on the alert button as he brought up the tactical consoles. Beneath his feet, in the missile deck, the automated systems would be loading munitions into the launchers. Designed to penetrate shields and gut heavy armour, the Marlin-XII missiles could be launched in waves of fifty every three seconds, with the armoury carrying just under a thousand of the weapons. Point defence fifty millimetre rotary cannon were also mounted along the hull. They were loaded, locked, and ready to kick ass.

The third Chief, a slim woman with red hair still had her eyes glued to the readout. "Son of a..." she looked over at the others. "This is massive, it's like they've got an entire..."

There was a flash of light as the turian fleet de-accelerated right at the very edge of visual range. The tiny specks on Dale's console didn't look impressive by themselves...but there were a _lot_ of them, and they were closing in fast.

=_All vessels, this is Commodore Roberts= _The Alliance Navy attaché sounded confident over the radio. =_The enemy fleet is closing fast, we expect them to open fire as soon as they're well within visual range. Wait for them to fire their first salvo, then pour hellfire onto them. Your missiles won't make a dent in a dreadnaught's armour. Defence platforms will target cruisers and troop transports. Frigates will fire their first shots and then manoeuvre to destroy targets of opportunity. Hold steady, boys, this is how it starts.=_

Dale noticed how sweaty his hands had suddenly become sweaty. "Targeting parameters set. Enemy fleet closing to firing distance..." he paused. "Why are we waiting for them to fire first?"

The 'San Diego' Chief answered, "Commodore Roberts hopes that they'll fire before they've got a good reading on us. They'll shoot first, with no idea of our weak spots, but exposing theirs. Then we drop 'em."

"What are our chances?" Dale whispered.

"Against a fleet that size?" The Chief who had been an adventurer squinted at the screen. "Just about...a whelk's chance in a supernova."

"Wonderful..." the operator wanted to scream, jump up and down, ANYTHING to relieve the tension. "So what happens..."

The comms screen lit up again. _=This is General Williams, I have a message for all of Shanxi's defenders=_

Dale listened.

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Gathered around the loudspeaker Sergeant Norman Alenko and the rest of his unit listened.

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Sitting in her cockpit on the tarmac of Garrison Base Echo, Major Tanya Alekseyev listened.

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In the armoury of their vessel, Eva Corde and Ben Hislop listened.

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On the underground mag-lev train en-route to the emergency bunkers, Governor Paul Worthing listened.

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Standing behind General Williams, Commander Mackenzie Shepard, Jack Harper and Lieutenant Colonel Ganju Gurung listened.

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The words came through clearly. _=Humanity expects that everyone will do their duty. God be with you all.=_

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Framed against the picturesque blackness of space, the lead formations of the Far Watching Fleet opened fire. Two dozen fiery orange balls accelerated toward the outer ring of the defences.

Sitting at his console, Operator Dale Dossitos summed up the collective thoughts of Shanxi with just a single, exquisitely chosen, calmly delivered word.

"Shit."

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**A/N: Yes, I added more Gurkhas. It was necessary. Also, I hope everyone has checked out the reading of the Horizon letter done by Raphael Sbarge, and the more recent reading by Kimberly Brooks of the Ashley Horizon letter. Both versions are excellent, and regardless of your opinion of the characters, you have to admit that the VAs are pretty damn good.**


	10. Expected Resistance

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Ten: Unexpected Resistance

I don't own BioWare

_**DARKO'S ENGIMA**_

**IN GEO-SYNCH ORBIT AROUND SHANXI**

**0200 HOURS, JUNE 13****TH****, 2157**

"Confirmed hits on the Gatsby and Virgil," Service Chief Lesley Chung reported from his station. "Their shields are holding strong though. The shields on these things are made to withstand sustained bombardment. You'll need more than one cruiser barrage to break through."

"I could do without the lecture, Les," Service Chief Carl Davies snapped back. "Operator Dossitos, what's the range on your missiles?"

"They've got enough fuel to reach the edge of the system and still manoeuvre," Dale flinched as another shot struck the Enigma. "After that, they turn into kinetic weapons. Aren't we going to fire back?"

"Not till Commodore Roberts gives the order," Chief Maxine Kelly was working the with the Engima's Virtual Intelligence with the targeting systems. "Our VIs are co-ordinating fire support. We wait for those bastards to get close, and then we hammer them."

"Get close?" Dale was turning green. "We're not indestructible. Our shields are already down to ninety percent."

"Stop whining and do your job!"

Dale turned back to his console. "I didn't sign up for this."

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"Admiral!" The tactical officer of the Tyreaus appeared at Jhirx's side. "We are detecting multiple orbital defence platforms, but none of them appear to be firing at us. Quarter Admiral Felx believes we have taken them by complete surprise."

"I noticed," Jhirx squinted at the image of the planet on her viewscreen. "Very well. Tell Admiral Xiliatus to move his squadron into position. Admiral Felx shall support him. Bracket fire on those frigates, and order Colonel Oraka's special units to board some of those platforms and secure prisoners for interrogation."

Her subordinates jumped to their tasks, some of the younger ones already in awe at witnessing the tactical mind of Admiral Jhirx in action. She smiled inwardly. She would give them something to marvel at.

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"Commodore?" A comms tech looked up at Roberts. "Okinawa and Stalingrad are coming under heavy fire. Our fighters are skirmishing with their scouts. And their cruisers are entering critical range. Orbital units are requesting firing orders."

Roberts nodded. A career officer whose career in the Royal Navy had at Captain, he was patient, willing to wait forever if he needed to. But in this case, all he really needed to do was wait long enough for his opponent to believe that they'd caught him with his trousers around his ankles.

"Let's get these festivities booming, shall we? Tell Commander Franks to take her frigate group over the initial barrage, Commander Shou will take his corvettes under. Orbitals will provide supporting fire. VF-Two One will remain engaged with enemy fighters, while VF-Four Four will commence their attacks on enemy troop transports."

Roberts frowned as he finished issuing his orders. He turned to General Williams. "Oh, and now would be an excellent time to get your troops to battle positions."

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"Sergeant Alenko!"

Norman looked up as Sergeant Major Nothis barrelled toward him and his squad. "Yes, Sergeant Major?"

"What are you still standing about for?" Nothis bellowed. "Haven't you heard? Whole bloody alien fleet just showed up!"

Norman unslung his rifle. "Where are they landing?"

"They're not landing anywhere yet!" Nothis looked around. "Where's Lieutenant Winkels?"

"Captain Forsythe is having a company briefing, sir," McDevitt was already kicking his squad to their feet. "Where are we moving?"

"Settlement Park," Nothis was already striding away. "Battalion intelligence estimates that they'll try and land there. I could have told 'em that. It's a big bloody green space, where else would you pick a landing zone?"

"This is just great," Corporal Barber grabbed her M520 10.4 mm machine gun from its mounting. "We spend days prepping this street for an attack, and we gotta do the same over at the park?"

"Just put your trust in the Good Lord, Corporal." McDevitt advised her. "And bring all the ammunition you can carry."

The riflemen of the platoon wisely heeded his advice, slotting extra clips anywhere they could fit them. Barber grabbed several satchels of 10.4 mm belt ammunition and began taping them to the ballistic plates on her body armour.

Norman passed a bandolier of grenades to McDevitt. "Any psalms to speed us on our way?"

"Just one," Bob yanked back on his rifle's charging handle. "Ye, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For I am the baddest, vicious, most unforgiving motherfucker inside that valley."

The other NCO paused to consider his friend's words. "That'll work."

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In orbit above Shanxi, the humans fired their first shots. Missiles spiralled into the front lines of the turian battle group. Many were destroyed by point defence lasers, but many more reached their targets. Two frigates and a troopship exploded as the missiles penetrated weakened shields and exploded.

The frigate _Stalingrad_ was struck amidships by plasma torpedo, knocking out her starboard thrusters, but leaving her weapons systems intact. Her dual torpedo launchers hammered into the cruiser that had wounded her, forcing it to manoeuvre out of its firing line.

Turian gunboats swarmed the _Okinawa, _the small, heavily armed ships hitting it from every angle until three corvettes swarmed to her rescue.

It was chaos, maddening and unyielding as each side struggled for the upper hand. In a way, it almost resembled fencing, thrusting and parrying, the massive fleet and the determined defenders seeking to wound their opponents, while guarding themselves.

That the turians had the advantage was undeniable. More ships, with an ever so slight technological advantage over the humans/. But that particular factor was so slim as to be almost unfindable. The turian commanders found themselves shocked at the almost equal firepower that was facing them. But it mattered little. The turian fleet had more than a hundred ships in their front line, with many more reinforcing them.

The human defenders had only two factors saving them from utter destruction. The first was their incredibly advanced network of Virtual Intelligences, protecting them from cyber-warfare attacks, and clouding the turian scanners with their own hacking attempts. And the second was the savage ferocity with which they attacked the turian fleet. Each defending vessel was shooting just as fast as their loading systems could supply munitions to their guns. Profligate, undiscriminating firepower was holding the human line by the skin of its teeth.

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"Magazines are at sixty percent and falling fast," Dossitos turned to Davies. "Colonial Affairs spent a lot to have these stations well outfitted, but we don't have infinite amounts of ammo. We're gonna run dry fast if we keep..."

"Would you shut up?" Davies tried to keep his tone even. "We've got a cruiser inbound, and she's aiming for us."

The harried voice of Commander Franks echoed across the command line. _"Gold group, concentrate your fire on that command vessel. My VI will be dialling the co-ordinates."_

"This is lunacy." Dale leaned forward in his chair. "How can she tell it's a command vessel?"

Franks spoke again. _"Because it's shinier than the rest, Enigma. Take your hand off the comm button."_

The cruiser fired its main gun directly into the side of the defence station. Dale whimpered as he typed in fresh commands for the damage control units. "I didn't sign up for this."

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Felx stared in wonder from the bridge of the _Okres_, at the battle station his cruiser was attacking. It refused to yield, standing firm to everything he had to throw at it. He turned to his communications officer. "I want three fighter squadrons from Fautan's reserve. We'll cram torpedoes down their worthless throats if we have to."

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Decidus wheeled his fighter to face the new co-ordinates, leading his squadron in and out of the assembled ships as they soared toward the front. Here was his chance for vengeance. These creatures had built themselves a nice little fortress, but like all fortifications, it had a weak spot, that could eventually become a breaking point.

His fighter was a newer model of the same Type 51 all purpose spacecraft that the rest of the fleet used. Extra torpedoes were loaded into the weapons bay today. His war chariot was ready to blast these interlopers to the spirits.

"_Elkuss Squadron, skirmishing line. We will engage their defence fighters, then destroy the shield generators of those platforms." _For a moment, Kaza allowed himself to fantasize that he was ordering the deaths of those who had killed his pilots. It was a good dream, but it mattered little. The mission was the objective, not revenge...as pleasant as revenge would be.

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=This is Commander Wallace= Damian examined the readout on his LADAR screen. =Enemy reinforcements are closing on our left flank. Fighters, lots of 'em. Requesting release for VF-Eight Seven=

He had barely finished his transmission when the reply came back =_Green light, VF-Eight Seven, engage those fighters and protect the orbital defenders. Good luck, Rider.=_

VF-87 sprang to action, thrusters firing up as they left their standby positions and powered toward the thin human line.

=Tally-ho boys!= Firefly called out with boyish excitement. The youngest of the pilots, Lieutenant Harrow was itching for a fight. =Drinks are on me tonight!=

Damian called him back into line immediately. =Stow the chatter, Firefly. Lock your Pallas payload and prepare to fire when we're in range.=

=Understood, Rider= Falcon chimed in. =We kicked their asses once, we'll do it again.=

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Kaza's mandibles parted in a pleased smile as he saw the familiar shapes approaching him. "Enemy fighters coming in at fourteen degrees. Fire missiles, then disperse."

Turian weaponry was, by its very nature, an art form. From their blades to their ships, the forges and weapons factories lived by one very simple rule. 'Just because it must be functional, does not mean it cannot be elegant.'

When it came to their weapons systems, turians liked to have the best of everything. The current Type-4 missiles were designed to lock onto a target, and follow that target to its utter destruction.

But Kaza didn't bother locking on his missiles, even as his squad mates did the same. His eyes were focused on the leading alien vessel, the one with the red and green flash painted on the wing. He knew that fighter very well. Perhaps the alien flying it did not know the severity of what he had done, perhaps he did, Kaza didn't care. His duty required the destruction of the enemy fighters, but his honour called for vengeance on the pilot who had murdered the rest of Kaza's squadron.

He spoke to the rest of the squadron, making each word convey the seriousness of his tone. "Engage the enemy at will, but leave their lead fighter to me. For the honour of the Hierarchy!"

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=_We're painted!_= Firefly yelped. _=Enemy missiles in..._=

The first wave of missile fire took down Firefly and his wing man, Lieutenant Renard. The rest of VF-87 were saved by the timely intervention of Enigma's VI, who deployed an electronic smokescreen that confounded the advanced targeting systems of the missiles, causing them to oscillate wildly and self destruct.

=Break, break, break!= Damian fed power to his thrusters. =Fire at will!=

The turian fighters were ready for the missiles that came chasing after them. Counter measures were deployed, and many of the Pallas missiles met the same fate as their turian counterparts. But unlike the turian weapons, the human missiles were programmed to seek out new targets in the event that they lost their original locks. Some made it through the turian bluff, causing a fresh wave of explosions as half a dozen turian fighters exploded under the barrage.

A few seconds later, the turian and human fighters merged in an impossible implosion as they circled and wheeled in a pitched dogfight. The X-25 Raiders held an advantage in their speed and manoeuvrability, but the turians had numbers on their side, and their pilots were as good as any of the humans.

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Kaza grunted with satisfaction as his close range missiles blew his target apart. The alien pilot had been skilled, but not a match for him, even in his fancy blue and silver fighter. But he wasn't his real objective, Kaza was searching for the alien squadron leader, he had lost sight of him in the initial melee, but he was out there somewhere.

Trying to find a specific target in a combat zone full of whirling black and grey shapes was practically impossible, but Kaza had better eyes than most turians. He kept his finger away from the arming switches on his missiles, or the firing stud for his cannon, fighting only when deliberately engaged. He saved his ammunition, content to be ignored by the other alien fighters wheeling about his squadron. He'd wait a long time if he needed to, just long enough to find his target and cast him into the abyss to join the rest of this miserable planet's defenders.

"I'm coming for you," he murmured. "Don't die before I find you."

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=Rider to Falcon= Damian spun out of the way of a debris ball that was once an alien fighter. =I've got an idea for stoping that cruiser=

=I'm all ears, Rider= Falcon commed back, her Colombian accent tense as she rolled out of a head on collision with an enemy fighter. =But make it snappy, would you?=

=You're carrying anti-ship warheads, right?=

=Just two of them, but yeah.=

=Follow me when I break off. We'll use our jammers to spoof their anti-fighter barrage, get right up close and hit their bridge with a quartet of Mark Sevens.=

=Do you even know where the bridge is on that thing?= Falcon glanced at the bird like shape hovering to her starboard.

=We'll aim for the densest concentration of point defence batteries and hope for the best= Damian jammed his finger down on the firing stud, scoring a direct hit on his target's cockpit with his MAC. =You with me?=

Falcon cut loose with a burst of decoys as a wave of enemy missiles missed her by inches. =Beats sitting here waiting to die!=

Breaking away from the main formation, the two fighters bolted toward the enemy cruiser.

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Out of the corner of his eye, Kaza finally saw a flash of green. Feeding power to his port thrusters, he spun at a ninety degree angle, then jammed the boosters forward. At regular speed, these alien fighters were faster than his own, but the Hierarchy liked to provide their pilots with a few little advantages, and the supercharger attached to his engine was one that he had specifically requested.

He gained rapidly on them, noting with satisfaction that they seemed unaware of his presence. This would be too easy. He slowly moved his targeting sight over the trailing fighter...

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"They're not shooting?" Damian was dumbstruck. He had expected to be taken out by an anti-fighter barrage for sure. Why wouldn't they...unless...=Falcon, check your six!=

=Son of a bitch! He's behind us! Breaking left!= Falcon swore in Spanish as she dived out of the way.

Checking his LADAR, Damian noticed with surprise that the enemy fighter hadn't followed Falcon. In fact, it had simply ignored her after she broke away, now it was just focusing on him. Swivelling his head, he caught a glimpse of his pursuer right before a stream of white hot bullets cut a trail past the side of his cockpit. His head shot forward, his pulse speeding up and his breath becoming fast and erratic. "Son of a bitch!"

Some favour currying aide to the Alliance Parliament Office of Naval Affairs had put forward the suggestion that maybe adding various calming agents to the oxygen tanks of fighter pilots could help them deal with panic in the cockpit, leading to fewer accidental deaths. The committee he was on had loved the idea, and had put it through several committees before it reached the first stage of military approval.

The admiral they had taken the idea to had stared at the m for a full ten seconds before laughing them out of the room. Fighter pilots were trained to deal with panic, it made up a large part of their flight school tests and selection. Panic was meant to be controlled, and the adrenal rush focused into razor sharp flying.

"All right," Damian felt the world slow down as his fingers danced around his cockpit, activating and powering on a dozen systems at once. ECM jammer? Check. Missile decoys? Check. Element zero power core? Running at one hundred and twenty percent. "Kiss this."

In six seconds, his speed almost doubled. In an Earth-normal gravity zone, his bones would have turned to jelly instantly. Instead, he just felt pure joy as he outdistanced his pursuer. Muscle memory and raw instinct guided him and the plane strapped to his back.

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Kaza accelerated after the silver-blue fighter, paying no attention to the blinking warning light as his eezo core rapidly heated up, the bar on his left rapidly filling up, approaching a stark white line that marked the point where he wouldn't be flying the fighter anymore, but rather, riding a burning comet.

It was a point of pride amongst turian fighter pilots that barely one in a thousand ever white-lined their power cores. Turians had more discipline than to overwork their fighters, and enough skill to never let a fight progress to the point when overworking your engines became necessary.

For the briefest of moments, Kaza wondered if he'd even be able to catch the squadron leader, or if he'd blow up before he could get within range. Mentally, he slapped himself for his doubt. His fighter was the pinnacle of turian technology. He would catch and destroy this interloper, of that he was certain. He was...certain.

Unwillingly his eyes flickered to the holo he had attached to the side of his engine output readings. An elegant female with a narrow waist and high toned fringe gazed back at him. He jerked his eyes away and keyed his last fuel reserves. He would not abandon this chase, his mate would be waiting for him when he returned to Palaven, and he could look at her all he wanted then.

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Damian knew when the first bullets struck his tail that it was over. His fuel was almost depleted, his eezo core was redlining, and his bird was now sluggishly rolling over. But he knew, as sure as he'd known anything else, that if he broke away now, he'd die. Whoever was chasing him was good enough...and had balls enough, to see the fight through. He glanced at his weapons display. Both missiles armed and ready to fire.

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"What in the name of the Spirits is that fool doing?" Admiral Felx stared in astonishment at the silvery flash bolting toward his cruiser. "Concentrate fire from the defence batteries, don't let him through!"

"They're down and charging," his weapons officer frantically worked at his console. "Our auxiliary power systems are all supplanting our shields."

"Then re-route the power! Fire a missile!" Felx jerked from left to right. "Somebody shoot _something!_"

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Kaza closed in on the tail of the alien fighter. He wanted this so badly. His finger strayed closer to the firing stud, just a bit more now, and then he'd have him...

Human fighter pilots had a term for what Kaza was experiencing. Target fixation. Becoming so obsessed with your prey...

_...the tip of his fighter's nose touched the tail of his silver enemy..._

...that you ran right into it.

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Damian lurched forward in synchronisation with his fighter as it spun to the right. He could hear barely hear anything above the sound of alarms blaring in his hears. Something had hit him, that much he knew. He reached for his ejection lever. The navigational thrusters built into the survival pack would let him propel himself behind the human line and request a pick up. He could still get free...except that the lever was jammed.

Infuriated, he pulled as hard as he could, trying to loosen it up, even slightly. Nothing would budge.

Looking out of his cockpit, he could see what had happened. Wings interlocked with his own, the alien who had rammed him stared back. Damian locked eyes with the strange featured...thing, and nodded. His opponent had been good, no doubt about that. No point in debating what he should have done differently.

It was just his time.

A second later, both cart wheeling fighters slammed into the hull of the turian cruiser. Right into its primary shield generators.

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Robert snarled as one of his battle stations erupted into fire, its hull riddled with torpedo fire. "All ships, return fire on those cruisers, get them off our backs."

=Sir!= Franks yelled over him. =We're reading a cruiser with its shields down!=

Roberts didn't hesitated "_Fire everything!"_

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For a moment, Admiral Felx knew what it was like to see a wall of fire approaching you. Even as he spoke, he knew it would be too late. "Abandon shi..."

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On the bridge of the Tyreaus, Jhirx found herself amused at the sudden consternation of her subordinates. Hadn't she predicted the loss of at least one cruiser? They had followed offensive doctrine to the letter, and paid the price. Standard turian tactics necessitated a series of minor offensives by cruisers to weaken the defences in anticipation of a dreadnaught's main attack. But such doctrine was not hers. She was prepared to lose exactly one cruiser, no more than that. Not when she had three dreadnaughts at her command.

"Admiral Oraka," She turned to her private comm screen. "Execute the next phase."

Standing on the bridge of the dreadnaught _Caraxan_, the blind turian nodded. "As you command, Admiral."

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Dale coughed through the smoke as he re-examined his console. "We did it! Enemy cruiser destroyed."

He looked at the three Chiefs. "I can't believe we actually..."

"New contact on the scope!" Chung interrupted him. "We've got a...a..."

Commander Franks once more issued her orders. =Stand to, everyone. They're committing their dreadnaughts. Ships disperse, re-position and prepare to...=

The message ended in a burst of static as the first shot from the lead dreadnaught struck Franks' frigate and turned it and a nearby corvette into splintered metal.

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Admiral S'Fal Oraka grimaced slightly as the battle reports reached his ears. As he had predicted, the alien line was fracturing under the dreadnaught's fire. He would have advocated using the dreadnaughts in the initial attack, but without knowing the enemy's defences, it was wiser to probe forward with lesser forces.

No part of the turian was in any way pleased by the sounds of the slaughter. Honour and glory were toys for young warriors, before they learned that the sad truths of duty. Honour could not keep you warm at night, and glory was a poor substitute for home and family. Oraka shivered slightly. He was loathe to admit it...but he really _was_ too old for this. War used to fill him with pride...now it just unsettled his stomach. He ordered a cup of grisitk tea to be sent up from the galley. The strong herbs would help calm him.

Bringing up his tactical display, he circled one of the enemy battle stations. "Disable and board. If Admiral Jhirx desires prisoners, we should oblige her."

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Another shot struck the Enigma, this time utterly dissipating the last of her shields.

Dale tossed his headset on the desk. "Power core's gone, we've got no more energy for shields or lasers. LADAR and life support will feed off back up power for a few minutes, then we're done."

Davies pulled open an emergency drawer and pulled several handguns from inside. "Come on."

Dale looked at the pistols with incredulity. "What are we going to do? Have a suicide pact?"

Chung pushed his way past the civilian. "In case you haven't noticed, they haven't shot us again. We're going to get boarded, which means we really need to get going. Where are the lifeboats?"

Dale swallowed a wave of bile. "Two decks down."

An alarm blared. Chief Kelly glanced at the internal scanners. Her face was emotionless. "Too late, they're already down there."


	11. Blood in the Water

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Eleven: Blood in the Water

I don't always write disclaimers, but when I do, I say that I don't own BioWare

**ALLIANCE COLONY WORLD: SHANXI**

**0330 HOURS, JUNE 13****TH****, 2157**

The human line didn't break, so much as it melted. The strongest, toughest titanium could only take so much heat before it finally lost its cohesion. And with three dreadnaughts pelting the defence stations with heavy slugs every twenty seconds, the melting point was fast approaching.

The Gatsby was the first station to issue the order to abandon ship. Its Chief lost his nerve, seeing the Lonsdale disintegrate under a single enemy shot had shattered whatever romantic convictions he had possessed about going down with his command.

Potemkin and Eversmore were next, the two frigates valiantly struggling to the last shot that pulverised their armour. Lost with all hands.

The remains of VF-87 fought hopelessly against a sky filled with more fighters than they could count. VF-21 and VF-44 lost what little cohesion remained during the pitched dogfight. Isolated and cut off, both fighter squadrons were efficiently and effectively massacred by the numerically superior turian fighters. With less than half a dozen fighters remaining, VF-87 was ordered to retreat to what little space remained under the protection of the battle stations.

The battle over Shanxi was rapidly coming to a close. The turians were too well co-ordinated and possessed far too much firepower to be deterred by even the stiffest pockets of orbital resistance. Politicians and contractors had claimed that the orbital defence grid would be a rock of ages that entire pirate fleets would break upon like water. Every seasoned campaigner in the Alliance fleet would have reminded them of a very simple rule of war. For every tough nail, there's someone with a bigger hammer.

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Dale didn't even fire the bulky pistol in his hands. He meant to, he truly wanted to lift it up and blaze away to help protect the colony, but his hands wouldn't respond. He cowered back into a corner, even as the three Service Chiefs tried to fight off the boarding parties. Chung even managed to get off a few shots before a burst of assault rifle fire dropped him in his tracks.

Human survival instincts were strong. You either fought against peril until you triumphed or perished, or you ran until you left all danger far behind you. And when there was nowhere to run, you hid...or cowered, until the danger past.

"Please." Dale dropped to his knees, shakily placing the pistol on the ground and trying not to look at Chief Kelly's perforated skull. "Don't hurt me. Please...I'm begging you..."

The aliens loomed over him, impossibly tall and clad in mat black envirosuits that no one could ever mistake for being humanoid in origin.

The civilian traffic controller was too numb to cry in fear, or to grovel at their feet, or to even throw up his hands in supplication. Naked fear was paralysing him, making any brave or cowardly action impossible. He wasn't a soldier, trained to deal with that fear. He was in way over his head...he took the only option available to him.

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Vyrnnus glanced around with barely concealed satisfaction. "Textbook strike, Commander."

"Against minor resistance," Commander Vakarian rebuked him. Examining the thin and pale creature in front of her, she snorted dismissively. "Look at this one. Too frightened to do more than gape. What a species we find ourselves faced with, Lieutenant. They make to fight us with machines, yet cannot defend themselves with talons and teeth."

"Their trust in their machines is what makes them weak," Vyrnnus replied without hesitation. "It is becoming clear to me that we have over-estimated these aliens. They may be spirited, but cannot present any real threat to us."

"The Lancers you lost to their boarding party aboard the Raptor's Fury would tell a different tale," Lacriss handed her subordinate a set of stun cuffs. "You will secure the prisoner for transport and interrogation. Speak out of turn again and you will not have the honour of landing beside us in the first wave."

"But Commander, I...!"

"You will be silent!" The Commander's second rebuke was harsher than her first. "I accepted you under my command because you promised that you had learnt from your previous failure. Your current behaviour induces me to believe that you have not. Control over our emotions and dedication to our duty is what makes us turians, Lieutenant, not mindless, blood seeking krogan."

Vyrnnus inclined his head slightly. "As you command."

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Roberts shook his head as he turned back to the rest of them. "Orbital communications are down. What few ships are still fighting are isolated. I hate to state the obvious, chaps, but this looks rather bleak."

"Every problem is an opportunity in disguise," Gurung frowned. "Or some such nonsense. They'll be confident of victory, probably not expecting a stiff ground resistance. If they land where we've predicted...we might just be able to give them something bitter to chew on."

"I pray you're right," Roberts shook his head. "Those poor bastards up there died for nothing otherwise."

General Williams turned from the tactical display. "Pack up everything. We'll move to the underground bunkers now. Issue a general order to all units to engage at their discretion, but to try and stay low until they're right under our guns."

"Let them waltz into an ambush," Gurung was already checking his service pistol. "I'm chuffed that you're following my battle plan, sir, but have you considered the possibility that they might be able to see through our camouflage and jamming systems?"

"For now?" Williams yanked back the slide on his short barrelled Colt .45. "I'm assuming they have every possible advantage, including the ability to track our comms. We'll use hardlines once we get to the bunker. This HQ just became a target of opportunity for our guests."

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**0756 HOURS**

**COMMENCEMENT OF GROUND ASSAULT**

**OUTREACH CITY, SHANXI**

The fast assault pods came first. Small, self contained units capable of taking three turian shock troopers to any target with a high chance that they wouldn't get blown out of the sky. Fifteen of them fell onto Outreach.

Commander Lacriss Vakarian stepped out of her pod with her pistol in hand, scanning for targets. She immediately noted the lack of incoming enemy fire. It seemed that even with the tumult overhead, her shock phalanx had achieved surprise. That seemed unlikely. She beckoned Vyrnnus closer. "What do you see?"

"I see empty streets and empty buildings," Vyrnnus unclipped his rifle from the back of his assault armour. "What else is there to see?"

"I see a perfect ambush zone," Lacriss narrowed her eyes. This alien architecture was difficult to analyse, but a street must be a street in any species. A few dozen units away, she could see moderately sized towers of elegant glass construction, which when compared to the functional grey buildings surrounding her, made her believe that she was in some kind of industrial zone. Satisfied enough with her deductions she moved to retrieve her own rifle. "I see quiet alleys that could hide squads of enemy soldiers, and roofs with catwalks that could hold many snipers. You must also learn to see these things."

Vyrnnus appreciated the wisdom behind her words. "Your orders?"

"I saw what looked like a spaceport on the way in, just six units from here," Lacriss indicated the desired direction. "Take a team and scout a route. I'll bring the rest of the section once we've collected the equipment."

Without another word, the Lieutenant set off at a rapid jog, followed by four other shock troopers. Lacriss had split her phalanx into sections of fifteen. While her section was focussing on the spaceport, the other two would scout the alternate landing zones. The first was some kind of garden, and the other was a stadium of some kind. Wide, open spaces, ideal for landing heavy equipment.

Which was why every part of her screamed in the defence of common sense that these areas would be heavily defended. With a sinking stomach, she accepted that it wasn't just likely that she was dancing into an ambush, it was inevitable.

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Colonel Matthias Pressly had always noted the irony in the duality of military structure. For a military unit to be effective, absolute conformity and teamwork had to be rehearsed into the very base of the soul. But for truly outstanding leadership, individuality had to be prized and treasured above all else. Troopers would be uneasy following a 'by the book' automaton, but they'd go to hell and back for a commander who had a few tricks up his sleeve. Riflemen needed hope, he knew, and hope was best delivered in the form of a decent battle plan.

"No mistakes, boys," he spoke gruffly into his comms mike. "That fireteam breaking off from the main body is going to head into the spaceport. I want one prisoner and four bodies, clear?"

A soft round of oo'rah's followed. Though nominally drawn from the military forces of every country that was a signatory to the Systems Alliance, no one could deny the influence that the United North American States Marine Corps had exerted over the foundation of the Systems Alliance Marine Corps. A full two divisions of the UNAS Marines had been the foundation of the new military branch, a mix of hardcore warriors from the former countries of Canda, Mexico and the United States. Naturally, the uniforms, ethos and bravado of the SA Marines was a match for their sister service. For a career Army man like Pressly, it was a sign of just how much the times had changed.

Hell, it wasn't just former bootnecks under his command. He had Russians, Chinese, Indonesions, Australians, Brits, French, Italians and every other flavour of European. He had Somalis, Libyans, Egyptians, South Africans...when you got right down to it, most of the countries on Earth were represented in his little regiment.

"You seem to be thinking about something, sir," Major Samad al Rehan passed him a mug of black coffee. The Pakistani Executive Officer then proceeded to slot another bullet into place in his pistol magazine. "Care to share it?"

"Just think, Sammy," Matthias looked at the camera footage with modicum. "All the discord in the history of our species...and we stick together to fight as one when a bigger threat comes along."

"Someone should write a paper about it?" al Rehan suggested.

"Maybe you could once we're done here?"

"Write a doctorate? Colonel, I plan on writing a book, selling it, and retiring to a country estate on Terra Nova, with my own private racing track." The Major joked weakly. "I've already got my eye on some racehorses that my cousin's breeding."

"Well then, we'd better win this quickly so you can hurry up and write your masterpiece," Pressly lifted his comm mike again. =Hotel Delta, this is Hotel Quebec, do you have yes on target?=

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When Sergeant Carl Dugson had made his famed three mile shot that took the head of an insurgent leader in the Afghanistan Neutral Zone, the officer that confirmed the shot couldn't believe his eyes. While it was true that the Buzzard .600 Long Distance Rifle was an instrument of almost magical precision and accuracy, that it could hit an object the size of a human head at three miles was almost beyond belief.

And yet, Carl Dugson had made that shot, and many others like it. Some said he was a wizard, others argued that he had the best eyes that any human had ever possessed. The short, squat Australian simply made the claim that he merely watched the target, kept his mind on the wind, and tried to guess what someone standing that far away was going to do in the few seconds that it took a bullet to traverse that distance.

So when he took in the sight of five tall aliens in black armour scuttling down the street in front of him, a bare six hundred and fifty yards away, Gunnery Sergeant Dugson judged it to be a playground shot.

=I've got them, Hotel Quebec= He answered quietly into his own mike, ever so slowly shifting the barrel of his ICWS (modified for urban sniping) to track the tangos. =Permission to engage?=

=Waste them, Hotel Delta=

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The four vehicle convoy carrying Lieutenant Winkels and her platoon rolled briskly through empty streets. According to the map, they had about six blocks left to go before they reached their OP overlooking Settlement Park. Most of the company was already there, but much to the consternation of the lead driver, the GPS had gone offline almost immediately. Of course, since the Marines were unused to the city, they had consequently gotten hopelessly lost.

The convoy consisted of two Tomcat Infantry Fighting Vehicles, one Light Reconnaissance Vehicle, and a truck. One IFV led the procession, one trailed it, with the LRV and truck occupying the middle.

Staff Sergeant Drey passed the Lieutenant his map. "See, right there, we need to take a right and follow Harry Street all the way to the park."

"Didn't we already miss Harry Street?" Norman was at the wheel of the LRV, but his earpiece was keyed into the command frequency. Corporal Barber was seated in the passenger seat, her machine gun in her lap. Private Todd leaned against the mounting of the MAC, scanning the sky for any more drop pods.

"No, Harry Street is past the police precinct," another of the platoon's squad leaders, a sergeant named Moore, piped up. "And until we've passed the police precinct...wait..."

"What is it?"

"I thought I saw some..."

There was a whistle, a shriek and an explosion that shook Norman's teeth in his head. The lead IFV jumped up in mid air, rolled over and dropped onto its back. Norman saw that the heavy duty, all terrain tires had been completely blown away.

In the seconds following the explosion, the street lit up with small arms fire. Todd dropped from the turret, bleeding from a stomach wound. Barber scrambled to take his place.

Shellshocked, Norman gazed around blearily, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Almost directly in front of him, he could see a figure that was definitely not human. And this not-human shape was pointing a big black tube at his LRV. As soon as his eyes noticed this, his brain kicked into overdrive. His foot stomped down on the accelerator, and his vehicle roared across the road, slammed into the alien and crunched it against the wall of the police precinct.

There was a sickening snap and the alien let out a strangled cry. Before it could scream again, Norman reached across the hood, jammed the muzzle of his pistol under the chin of the alien's helmet and pulled the trigger twice. The .50 cal rounds penetrated the softer material and turned the thing's brain to mush.

The second IFV had opened fire, its 40mm auto-cannon rapidly dispatching most of the alien squad in seconds. The infantry dismounting from its rear compartment and the back of the truck finished the rest off with rifle fire. Two of them turned to run, only to be gunned down by Barber's light MAC. Total time of the firefight from start to finish was fifty seven seconds. Ten alien corpses lay scattered across the road. Eight human corpses burned in the wreckage of the lead IFV.

Winkels staggered slightly as she moved back toward the truck. "Where's Drey?"

McDevitt just stared at the burning IFV. The Lieutenant nodded with understanding. "Congratulations Sergeant, you've just inherited his post. You're platoon sergeant now."

"Yes ma'am," McDevitt's blustery voice was whisper quiet. "We should probably keep moving."

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Dugson's first two shots took the head clear off what he thought was the alien squad leader. The sniper muttered a prayer under his breath as he let off another five rounds in quick succession. The aliens were smart, he'd willingly acknowledge that. When their first companion dropped, they immediately scattered and began looking for him. Three of his rounds struck home in another alien, but this one didn't die so easily.

The remaining four figures dashed into an alleyway, out of his sight. He hissed with annoyance. =Hotel Quebec, this is Hotel Delta. One Tango down, one wounded. Targets are in cover.=

=Roger, Hotel Delta= Headquarters responded crisply. =Displace for a better firing position. Be aware, friendly units in your sector will move when you can provide fire.=

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Lacriss wasn't operating under any delusions as to the tactical situation. The aliens had more cunning than she had originally anticipated. That they possessed the subtlety to wait and ambush her phalanx was a bad sign. It meant she was up against a competent commander. War was much more fun when you fought idiotic pirates with more guns than brains. But she wasn't lacking in either department herself, and nor did she intend to take hits lying down.

She nodded at her sniper team, then gestured to the connecting roofs of the warehouses. "Find a position and cover our advance."

With seven shock troopers at her back, Lacriss led the way toward the gunfire. They moved in single file, close the buildings to avoid sniper fire. They were good troops, well trained and experienced. Although, unknown to them, so were their enemies.

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In retrospect, Dugson would later decide that he should have seen it coming. It was a prime spider hole, after all, a nice little niche from which a well placed sniper could rain down fire on any entrenched force. It was natural that any competent commander would send a sniper team to secure it.

Which was why, when the first shot threw up concrete next to him as he lay on the roof of the warehouse, Dugson wished that he had brought a spotter along. It was the spotter's job to tote an assault rifle around in case there was any CQB to be done.

Looking over his shoulder as he rolled out of the way, he saw two figures jumping across from the roof of a neighbouring warehouse. And they both carried futuristic looking rifles that they probably knew how to use.

Coming to his feet, he drew his compact sidearm and opened fire. The high velocity rounds struck both of his targets. One of the aliens stumbled backwards and fell off the edge. The other one simply shrugged off the bullets and kept advancing. Fumbling for another clip while back pedalling furiously, Dugson lost his balance and toppled to the roof.

The fall saved his life, several bullets flying over the space that his head had previously been occupying gave him cause to throw up a quick thanksgiving. Slotting a fresh magazine into his puny pistol, he stood up. The alien was looking down at its rifle, frantically pulling at some switch as the thing emitted a loud beeping sound. Dugson took aim at the alien's faceplate and squeezed the trigger.

As the thing collapsed, it's claw instinctively jammed down on the trigger of its rifle. Dugson felt a hot pain in his chest, like someone had jammed a spike through his body-armour. He took a step forward, and knew immediately that it was too late. Whatever kind of weapon the alien had shot him with, the bullet had passed right through his heart. He fell forwards, collapsing onto the body of the turian he had killed.

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Manoeuvrability was the winning factor in urban warfare. Manoeuvrability, and fully automatic weapons. When you were fighting in the streets, you needed to move fast, and kill everything in sight by firing as many bullets as possible.

When Vakarian's shock troops clashed with Pressly's Recon Marines, the Recons had the advantage in numbers. But while the humans were equipped with belt fed, magazine loaded, gas operated weapons, and encumbered with heavy body armour, the turians had mass accelerator rifles that fed off small metal ammo blocks, and equipped with armour that could stop a 9.5mm round in its tracks.

The human bullets were effective when they hit the weak spots (face, neck, shoulders) that were located on the turian armour. But the turian weapons simply chewed through the Marines' body armour. In the first few seconds of the firefight, six garrison troops bit the dust within second, followed by two turians as the Marines returned fire.

Across the city, more than a dozen skirmishes were breaking out as the turian scouts engaged with the garrison checkpoints. The real ground war hadn't started...not yet...but blue and red blood was already staining the soil of the human colony.

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A/N: To those still curious about Ensign Hobbs, her story arc begins in earnest next chapter, trust me.


	12. Bloodless Battle and Bloody Drill

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twelve: Drill is Bloodless Battle, Battle is Bloody Drill

I don't own BioWare

Lacriss ducked into a side alley as a grenade skittered past her. After the explosion, she leaned back out and dropped the alien who had stood up to throw the device. The figure in mottled grey and black armour dropped backwards in a spray of red. "Lieutenant? Status?"

Vyrnnus swore viciously as another bullet pinged off his weakened shields. "These creatures are like viper gnats. They sting you a thousand times before you die."

"And they die as easily as insects," a sergeant snarled as he fired a burst, then gurgled as an alien bullet pierced the armour at his throat. Lacriss grabbed him as he fell, dragging him back into cover.

"Keep your heads down or lose them!" She snapped at her troops. Of the fifteen turian section, she had six left, two of them wounded. Reports were coming in from the rest of her phalanx. Moderate casualties had been inflicted on the alien military, but they had still managed to whittle away at her force. Internally she grieved for her troops, but she did not allow any anger to affect her judgement. The attrition rate of spearhead units was high, as doctrine dictated. They were a provoking force, meant to seize objectives with the surprise of a thunder burst, or else draw out their opponents and force them to reveal any hidden strengths.

The loss of her phalanx would be a matter for another day. At the moment, she was pinned down by a kiflox sized force of well equipped, well trained light infantry. That much was obvious. If she had her full phalanx of seventy five surrounding her, she would have cut them to ribbons, but she couldn't fight her way out against a force twenty times her strength.

"All right, somebody blow me a hole in that wall!" She pointed at the building behind her. "We'll make our own..."

_=All units, this is Colonel Oraka! Commander Vakarian, are you receiving me?=_

She slapped on her comm unit. "By the Spirits, your voice couldn't come at a more appropriate time! We've met heavier resistance than anticipated. I've sustained heavy casualties."

_=Understood Commander! The main landing force is inbound, along with several flights of fighters. We should have air and ground superiority within the hour!=_

"Good to hear, Colonel!" Lacriss flinched as her explosives expert finally blasted an escape route into the side of the warehouse. "But I need reinforcements now!"

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**EMERGENCY COMMAND BUNKER**

**ADJACENT TO OUTREACH CITY TRANSIT SYSTEM**

**0930 HOURS**

In the vids, command bunkers were always portrayed as being hives of activity. They got that part right. But what always seemed to happen was that just when the commanding officer needed a moment to quietly reflect on life, the universe, and everything in it, the bunker could magically empty itself as the staff gave their beloved leader time to think.

That part was dead wrong. Whether the general was pondering or not, there was a battle to be run. Units on the surface needed second by second intelligence information, sat-nav locations, and uplinks to the tactical air support. If the bunker stopped running, the battle would be over.

Dominating the centre of the bunker was a four dimensional topographical map of Outreach City. Using traffic cameras, implanted security systems and the city's networked VI interfaces, the staff were able to track the enemy forces, and home the Marines in on their targets. It was an unparalleled tactical advantage, one that had been carefully thought out and prepared in the very infancy of the colony.

Arrayed around the map, like worker bees around the queen, the command staff swarmed to and fro. A thousand tasks needed to be performed, and a thousand more would be waiting after those were over.

Three tiers of consoles were arrayed around the centre of the room. At the top tier, General Williams looked at Colonel Gurung, and asked him a very important question. "When?"

"Five minutes ago," Gurung answered grimly. "And not just at Katyan. Sixty Second Mech engaged a major enemy invasion force at Oros as they were landing. Enemy airstrikes have decimated ammo dumps and assembly areas. Our casualties are mounting fast."

"Where's Pressly?"

"Still topside," Shepard entered the bunker, now dressed in full combat gear. Matte black combat armour encased his torso, shoulders and thighs. He had a prototype mass accelerator rifle attached to his back with a mag-seal. "We've all but eliminated the enemy reconnaissance units, but Pressly's fuming. He's lost sixty men already, with about the same number of enemy dead."

"What the problem?"

"Nothing's the problem," the ex-SEAL looked troubled. "Pressly's Marines are good, but whoever we're fighting is just as good. And they've got personal shielding and mass accelerator based weaponry."

Commodore Roberts looked up from his console. "Why don't we have that kind of tech yet?"

"We do," Shepard pointed at his own equipment. "I have a Mark One shield generator and a prototype rifle from Remington Arms, but none of it is standard issue yet. The companies producing these things have backlogged orders from every military on Earth, from the UNAS to the European Federation. The Alliance doesn't have enough money to get to the top of the list."

"So we're stuck with Kevlar, ballistic plating and gunpowder?" The Navy officer's eyebrow twitched. "How...irritating."

"Sir!" One of the radar operators looked up from his post. "You'll want to see this!"

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"Take your positions!" Winkels boots hit the ground as she jumped out of the truck. "McDevitt, Alenko, get your squads up high. I want those machine guns giving covering fire for the rest of the company. Moore...TAKE COVER!"

The angular fighters buzzed over the street, the shockwave from their boosters shattering windows as they shot overhead.

"What are the flyboys doing buzzing us like this?" Moore yelled out.

McDevitt shoved him. "Don't you bay attention to the briefings? Those ain't our fighters!"

Alenko was already running toward the LRV. "Get the SAM's out! They're coming back!"

The Marines snapped out of their shock. Corporal Barber pulled a bulky green case out of the truck, flipping it open to reveal the T-7 surface-to-air missile launcher. Lifting it onto her shoulder, she rested the targeting ring over one of the trailing fighters. Hearing the solid tone of a lock on, she squeezed the trigger. The missile shot after the fighter, closed on it in seconds, exploded in a ball of flame as it impacted...and did absolutely no damage. The fighter's shields shimmered slightly as they shrugged off the light impact of the tiny warhead.

Barber stared at the useless tube in her arms for a whole second, then looked up to see the alien fighters coming in for another pass, this time with their guns blazing. "Get do..."

The street lit up with shrapnel as the rapid fire mass accelerator cannons on the fighters tore it apart. Half the platoon died in seconds, turned to pulp by the strafing run. Norman curled up in a ball as the ground around him turned to powder.

Lying on his back, dazed by the gunfire, he looked up into the sky and felt terror envelope him. There were dozens of them, fighters and landing craft, all descending onto Shanxi. They cast their own shadow onto the city, blocking out the sun.

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"How many?" Roberts looked over Williams' shoulder.

"Three dozen landing craft, each one carrying at least fifty troops," the radar operator was openly perspiring. "About a regiment sized force, and there's more behind them."

"We're an entrenched defending force, it'll take a lot more than that to shift us," Gurung sniffed contemptuously. "But they've got air superiority..."

"Get Commander Corthock on the command channel!" Williams turned to the comm techs. "I need fighters in my skies ASAP."

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Ensign Clarissa Hobbs had nothing with which to measure time. That was possibly the worst thing. To not know whether it was day or night, whether it was time to plan, or time to sleep. Her captors would waker her up after a few hours, disorienting her even more. She'd read her share of spy novels over the years, she recognised a softening up procedure when she saw it. Some things must be inherent to species. The need for sleep, sustenance and conversation was inherent to sapient existence.

The food they gave her tasted like grey mush, and the water was brackish and almost undrinkable, and no matter how nicely she tried to make her voice sound, they didn't talk to her. No one had talked to her, not since the General had left her alone a few days earlier. Isolation was doing to her what pain could not. Her mind was becoming soft, desperate for stimulation.

Someone with a strong will could resist even the harshest amounts of pain. If you set your mind to it, you could endure so much pain that your body would eventually break, and your mind would be lost forever, taking any useful information with it as a final shot of defiance.

But no one without special training could resist isolation for long. Humans were by their nature social creatures. Whether this was by design, or evolution, humans had banded together whenever they could, forming tribes, building cities, creating cultures. A human mind trapped on its own, without social interaction, or mental stimulation, would become bloated, an easy target for a keen interrogator.

Saren Arterius had taken a gamble that his prisoner's species possessed this trait, common amongst batarians and asari. As he entered her cell .he was pleased to see that his guess had been correct. All too easy. He could see the way relief turned her face into a mass of wrinkles. The eyes and top facial structure _could_ be compared to an asari, _if_ you were looking closely. But the lower jaw reminded him more of a salarian. Truth markers wouldn't be identical, but there could be some similarities that he could exploit.

"I'm not sure how your species measures time," he began by taking a seat behind her. All she could perceive was his voice. "But by my reckoning, you have been a prisoner for about four of my days."

The translation matrix was finally working within acceptable limits, delivering what was more or less an approximation of his voice. He'd endeavour to learn this new language as soon as possible. Amongst his clan, it was considered good manners to learn the culture and customs of client races. "You don't say anything. Why?"

Clarissa moistened her lips. "I have nothing to say."

"Are you sure?" Saren began to walk, pacing close to the walls of the room. "We have utterly destroyed the orbital defences of your homeworld, and have begun to land troops on the surface. Surely you have something to say about that? Any words for me?"

"Just two." She looked up. "Go away."

"I think my brother was far too harsh with you," Saren shook his head. "He regarded this as an interrogation, with you being the compliant prisoner."

Her lips twisted in a grim facade of a smile. "And what would you call it?"

"An exchange," the turian informed her promptly. "Almost a transaction. Something I want for something you want."

"You have nothing I want."

"Are you sure? That's your homeworld we are attacking. Surely you have family down there? A mother? A father? A lover, perhaps?"

Hobbs stifled a grin. Her family was safely ensconced on their farmland in the Terra Nova highlands, far out of reach.

There was an almost imperceptible look of satisfaction on her face, one that Saren barely caught, but which took him by surprise. Did she genuinely not care about her family? Or was there something else beneath the obvious?

Nodding in a turian expression of frustration, Saren stood up. "I'm afraid that there's little I can do for you without your co-operation. I will return tomorrow. Consider my offer, at least. No harm can come of that."

Clarissa glared at him. "I'll die before I tell you anything."

"Do not make wagers that you cannot back up," Saren casually tossed another ration bar over his shoulder as he left the interrogation chamber.

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Corthock raced out of his office, dragging on his flight suit as the klaxon sounded, bringing every fighter pilot out of the barracks blocks. In the distance, he could see gunfire lighting up the sky over Outreach, and heard the muffled thunder of explosions. "Scramble! Scramble! Get everything off the ground! Major Alekseyev? Major Li?"

The two squadron commanders managed to push their way through the mass exodus of pilots and ground crew to the lines of bomb proof storage bunkers for the twenty seven planes that this particular airbase held.

"We're getting called up," he informed them as soon as they were standing in front of him. "Every single airbase in the northern hemisphere is to immediately dispatch their fighters to provide cover over the war zone. Airbases in the south are going to sit tight and wait for instructions."

"How many can we get up?" Alekseyev zipped up the collar of her grey flight suit as the first ASF began to lift off the runway.

"Ninety eight fighters, all up. Half will be equipped with air to ground ordnance, the rest will be equipped for air to air. Flogger, your squadron will provide cover for Li's fighter-bombers. If we want to keep this planet, we're gonna need to drop a shitload of high explosive on those alien fuckers! Li and the rest of the squadron commanders designated for ground support will have a direct link to Forward Air Controllers in the cities. We need bombs falling yesterday! Understood?"

"YES SIR!" Both pilots snapped salutes in unison, then turned and bolted toward their own aircraft.

Major Tanya Alekseyev vaulted up the ladder and seated herself in the cockpit of her fighter in record time. In twenty seconds, she was strapped in, secured and already halfway through her pre-flight checklist. In forty seconds, her engines were powered up, and her fighter was rolling forward onto the runway. And in sixty seconds, her aircraft's Vertical Take Off and Landing system was propelling her into the air.

=Flogger to Red Sparrows= She keyed into the squadron's comm link. =Everyone be careful. Your new shield generators will afford you some protection, but you are not invulnerable. Maintain altitude whenever possible, use the sun to your advantage, and stay close to your wingman. We'll get through this=

=Roger that, Flogger= The irrepressibly cheerful voice of Flight Lieutenant Alistair piped up. =Remember your training, lads, and stick to it. Tally ho!=

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"Get down!" Lieutenant Harat screamed as another mortar landed next to his landing craft.

His detachment had been in deep varren piss from the first second. The command craft had been hit by anit-aircraft fire, crashing in flames and killing Colonel Vakoss, the unit CO. And when their craft had set down, they had been shot, shelled and taken apart.

"Lieutenant!" An NCO appeared beside him. "Enemy tanks are closing fast. We've lost the XO and we need..."

A sniper's bullet cut short the rest of his report. Harat threw himself prone as the alien defenders hammered his position. He crawled toward his orbital radio, fumbling as he tapped in his authorisation code. "This is Lieutenant Harat. First and second waves ineffective. We do not hold the spaceport. Massive casualties, the enemy is dug in. Need reinforcements and air support."

=Copy, Lieutenant= A voice on the other end, probably some fat fringed officer on the Tyreaus or one of the other dreadnaughts, replied calmly. =Air cover is unavailable at this time. We are currently devoting our efforts to securing the first two landing sites=

=Are you insane?= Harat looked around him. =We've got four phalanxes down here. We need support now. We are overrun!=

=I don't make strategy, Lieutenant= The voice snapped back. =Reinforcements and fire support will be assigned to you as it becomes available=

Harat simply stared at the handpiece, an expression of utter disbelief spreading across his face, until a high explosive shell from an Odyssey Main Battle Tank ended his confusion forever.

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"Third battalion reports they have completely overwhelmed enemy forces at the spaceport," Major al-Rehan reported as he updated the tactical map. "Second battalion has lost contact with those infiltration troops, they slipped away during an airstrike. First battalion is in heavy contact around the park, in danger of being overrun."

"Pull a company from Second and reinforce First." Pressly examined the map again. "What's the situation at the stadium?"

"General Williams had upwards of a regiment of militia tasked to hold it," al Rehan shook his head. "They're fighting hard, but their equipment is antique. I don't think they'll be able to hold for much longer."

Pressly didn't believe that anyone was born a 'gifted' commander. No matter how smart you were, military tactics always came down to just thinking, both inside and outside the box. Now standard procedure would be to have the rest of Second battalion reinforce the militia, but considering the rate at which the aliens were landing, that'd only forestall the inevitable. So when inside the box was proving constricting, going outside was his only option.

"What are their designated fall back points?"

"Sir?"

"For the militia," Pressly insisted impatiently. "What are their back up positions if they withdraw?"

Al-Rehan circled three positions in red. "Rodeo Circle, Matthew Street, Founders Square."

"Good. Get Major Le Beau to pull his men into covering positions along this line," Pressly drew a red line down the centre of the map. "Tell him to use everything he has to set up a blockade. If we want to hold Central, we need to stop any enemy advance right there!"

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Norman squeezed his finger down the trigger as he stood up from his foxhole. The two aliens approaching his position staggered back as their shields flared and failed. Corporal Barber finished them both off with an extended burst from her machine gun.

"Bob? You still alive?" He called over the gunfire as he crouched back into his foxhole...a bomb crater really, rapidly removing his empty magazine and reaching for a fresh one.

"You haven't got rid of me yet, Alenko!" His friend yelled a reply. "Where's the Lieutenant?"

Norman turned to Barber. "Corporal, you seen Lieutenant Winkels?"

"Yeah," Barber was loading a fresh belt into her M520. "She's about ten metres that way."

He looked in the indicated direction and saw only a heap of human bodies in black and grey uniforms. "Shit."

"If it's any consolation, I think the first bullet killed her pretty quick," Barber grimaced as she opened fire on a fresh wave of advancing foes.

"Bob! LT's dead!"

"Shit! Captain Forsythe's dead too."

"Think we're FUBAR?"

"Maybe? Who's in command?"

First Sergeant Nothis took a running jump into Norman's foxhole. "That'd be me, you idiots. Listen, stop all this panicking and get your guns downrange."

"We've lost half the company," Norman glanced at the grizzled old soldier. "They're attacking us in battalion strength."

"I know, boyo," Nothis patted him on the shoulder. "Every company in the battalion's taking hits, but we're holding. We've got reinforcements coming in, militia and some boys from second battalion. Air support will be here soon."

Waiting for a fresh wave of cover fire, Nothis took off toward the next set of impromptu foxholes that the Marines had set up. The invading force had taken the bark and were unloading troops with impunity, but the Marines still held the high ground and the streets leading to City Central.

Barber sent another burst at the scurrying black figures, then glanced at Norman. "We're all fucked, aren't we Sarge?"

"Probably Corporal."

"I'm fucking scared Sarge."

"Me too Corporal." Norman checked his magazines. Only three more left. They needed ammo and troops in the next five minutes, or they'd simply be overrun. Where was the air support?


	13. The Battle of FourKiloOne

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Thirteen: The Battle of Four-Kilo-One

I don't own BioWare

"FIX BAYONETS! FIX BAYONETS ALONG THE LINE!" Nothis screamed over the sound of descending engines. "NOTHING GETS THROUGH!"

Norman fumbled for his bayonet, attaching it to the end of his rifle as the alien fire slackened. Barber cursed again as she moved to clear a jam. "Why aren't they shooting?"

"They're grouping up, prepping for a charge maybe?" Norman looked out along the foxholes. "Buckley! Hess! You still with me?"

A shaking hand got raised from a mortar crater a few yards away. A German voice answered. "Still alive, Sergeant, but I can't find Buckley!"

Norman propped himself up. "Anyone seen Private Buckley?"

A sardonic male voice came from a foxhole behind him. "I've got his head, Major Scatelli's boots and Captain Forsythe's left arm in here. Take your pick."

McDevitt's southern twang echoed down the line. "Keep your shirt on, Benny. Any of the officers still breathing?"

"Does Lieutenant Bryce count?"

"He was an officer, last I checked."

"Well, he's back at the aid station, but he won't be giving orders for a while. Poor bastard had his eardrums ruptured by a grenade blast."

"Ain't so bad."

"Is when shrapnel from the grenade tore his eyes to shreds."

McDevitt was silent for a few seconds. "Well, that's a mite more serious."

Norman put an unsteady hand into his top pocket, and found it empty. "Shit...Anyone got any cigarettes?"

A pack sailed over his head and landed in the bottom of his hole. "That shit'll kill ya, Sarge!"

"Unsubstantiated rumour!" He yelled back.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" The voice of the Company Sergeant Major rang out once again. "I SUGGEST YOU CHECK YOUR MAGS AND MAKE YOUR PEACE WITH ALMIGHTY GOD!"

"But Boss, I'm an atheist!" Someone shouted back.

"EVERYONE ELSE SAY A PRAYER FOR THAT 'EATHEN BASTARD!"

An almost hysterical wave of laughter hit Norman and the rest of the company, infectiously spreading from foxhole to foxhole.

And then the enemy opened fire again, and it stopped being funny.

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"Fox Three, Fox Three!" Tanya twisted her fight to the right as her missiles shot out of the internal weapons bay. "Missile away! Bogeys on my right!"

=And above us!= Corthock radioed in. =We have some survivors from VF-87 coming in. We could use their help.=

The voice of a Forward Air Controller distracted Tanya for a second, almost blinding her to the alien dropship that cut across her nose. Cursing in Russian, she pulled back on her joystick, barely missing the other craft.

=Whiskey Three-Three, this is Juliet-Sabre One= A woman's voice came across the open channel. =First-Fourteenth is in heavy contact at grid Four Kilo One. Confirming a Serpent Six, I say again, confirming emergency code Serpent Six! Over!=

There was a pause. Then Corthock came back online. =Juliet-Sabre One, this is Whiskey Three-Three. What the fuck is a Serpent Six? Over!=

There was another pause...and then a man's voice came online. =IT MEANS WE'RE BEING FUCKING OVERRUN YOU BASTARD! CARPET BOMB THE FUCKING PARK!=

=Copy all, copy all! Hang tight, we're coming fro you!= Corthock swapped frequencies, moving to the tactical channel. =All bombers, stack up in flights, obliterate the enemy LZ at Four Kilo One.=

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"They're coming up in force!" One of the riflemen in the forward foxholes screamed. "Where are the reinforcements?"

"They're reinforcing Romeo Company over on the left flank!"

A barrage of short range rockets threw up dirt and debris as the Marines ducked for cover. The aliens came through the smoke, firing short bursts. The riflemen in the forward foxholes stood up to engage with their bayonets. Both Marines and aliens were cut down as the rear machine guns opened fire.

"CEASE FIRE AT THE REAR!" Nothis bellowed. "DON'T GET OUT OF YOUR HOLES! IF THEY GET ON TOP OF YOU, LET THE PITS BEHIND YOU DEAL WITH THEM! YOU STAND UP, YOU DIE!"

"We need more men up front!" Sergeant Muscit yelled out, her voice cracking with strain as she choked on the dust. "Three or four!"

"Alenko coming up!" Norman shouted back, then turned to Barber. "Come on, let's go!"

"Fuck you!" Barber crouched lower over her machine gun, her hands gripping to it like it was a log in the middle of the ocean. "We go up there and we die!"

Norman didn't have time for argument or debate. He grabbed his sidearm and pressed it against Barber's head. "Die here or die up there, Corporal?"

She twisted her head, locked eyes with him, and saw pure murder in them. Hoisting her gun up, she charged forward and threw herself prone into another foxhole, jamming her finger down on the trigger. Her machine gun sounded like a buzzsaw, the steady stream of bullets cutting a swathe through the figures advancing in the smoke. "SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT..."

Norman followed her, staggering slightly as a bullet graced his shoulder, shearing off the ballistic plate covering his socket. He collapsed next to Barber, firing his rifle one handed until his magazine went dry.

He shoved the rifle aside, grabbing another one from underneath one of the dead bodies. The other Marine had two more clips of bullets, each one with a depleted uranium tip. Lucky bastard must have been tight with the quartermaster...well...unlucky bastard.

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Tanya pulled her joystick to the left, narrowly preventing a collision with an oncoming fighter. The dogfight here was even more chaotic than the one in orbit. Up there, less than eighty fighters had been entangled. Here, it was upwards of two hundred.

=Try and ignore their fighters!= She pulled onto the tail of a troop transport. =Take out their transports!=

=But ma'am, the fighters...=

=Their fighters can't take this planet away from us!= She berated the unfortunate owner of the voice. =But the soldiers on those transports can! _Tubvoyu maht!_=

Her mass accelerator cannon ripped gaping holes into the cargo bay of the transport. In her mind's eye, she pictured troops crammed close together, just waiting to charge out and help kill humans. She'd see to it that this particular batch never reached their destination.

The transport exploded, her rounds finally touching off its fuel tanks. She tried to turn to avoid the wreckage, but her blood lust had driven her too close to her prey. One piece smashed in her nose cone, while another sheered off her left wing. Her fight spun uncontrollably, descending toward the smoke.

Alistair saw it happening. =Flogger's hit! Flogger's going down!=

Either no one heard him or no one cared. With fighters and fighter-bombers crisscrossing the sky with smoke trails and tracer rounds, one lone fighter going down didn't draw much attention.

The first Adaptive Strike Fighters, loaded down with air-to-ground ordnance, screamed in from above as the first round of bombs were delivered to Grid Four Kilo One.

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Without warning, Barber's machine bucked out of her grip. Flipping onto its side, the barrel began to buck wildly. Grabbing the belt, Barber tore the ammunition free. "Motherfucker!"

"Fire your weapon, Corporal!" Norman ducked as a burst of enemy fire kicked up dirt around the edge of the foxhole.

"Can't do, Sarge," Barber dragged the gun into the bottom of the foxhole. "My barrel's red hot, it's cooking off my rounds! The cooling system's all clogged up. If I keep shooting I'm gonna deform the barrel!"

Alenko reached for his hydration pack on his back...and felt only a damp patch on his ballistic plating. "You got any water?"

"The preacher needed it for the wounded at the aid station."

"Shit." Norman checked his magazine. Still half full. "Here, take this and keep firing. Single shots only, only shoot at what you can hit."

"What are you going to do?" Barber glanced down the fore sight. "Spit on it?"

Norman didn't bother answer. Still lying prone in the hole, he turned on his side and reached for the zipper on his fatigue trousers. Twenty seconds later he brought the light machine gun back up and passed the grip to Barber.

The Corporal glanced at the steaming barrel of her weapon. "Did you just piss all over my gun, Sarge?"

"There are never problems, Corp," Norman retrieved his rifle. "Just opportunities."

Her reply, no doubt cutting and urine related, was lost in the explosion that followed as a pair of one thousand pound smart bombs landed on top of another wave of enemy troops.

The NCO tossed his rifle aside. Stupid bitch had jammed. He had cleaned, field stripped and coddled that rifle all the way from Earth, and it still mucked up on him right when he needed it the most. Almost out of rifle ammo anyway.

His pistol came up, his eyes scanning the smoke and fire for another wave. "Down to sidearm!"

"Me too!" A private in the next foxhole yelled as her rifle gave off the telltale click of an empty magazine. "Shit, there's more of them!"

"Get real small in your holes! Sergeant Major's bringing the bombs right on top of us!" McDevitt hurled his last grenade over the heads of his companions. "Get down dammit!"

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=You heard me, Lieutenant!= Corthock yelled at the new squadron leader of the fighter-bomber group. =Drop those thousand pounders as close to our lines as you can. Aliens are so close to friendlies that we can't tell the difference. Add Yellowstone to make things interesting!=

Yellowstone. The innocuous code name for one of the most feared air support weapons of all time. Napalm. Outlawed a dozen times in the last two centuries...but always introduced when the need was most dire. With modern facilities, it was dirt cheap to produce, easy enough for a plane to carry...and more effective as an anti-infantry weapon than a thousand conventional bombs. It was meant to be a threat a colonial garrison commander could use against rebels or pirates in lieu of nuclear weapons. A thousand gallons of napalm was almost as fearsome as a yellowcake uranium warhead to someone aware of its reputation.

A few flicked switches later and the planes carrying the Yellowstone canisters were armed and ready.

"Burn in hell." Corthock murmured as he keyed his comm again. =Juliet Sabre-One. Yellowstone and high level bombers inbound. Twenty seconds till major strike, over.=

=Roger that= Juliet Sabre-One responded. =But I don't know whether we'll still be here in twenty seconds!=

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Norman shot the first alien down in his tracks with a full clip from his Heavy Combat Pistol. Barber dropped the next one, and the one behind him, before her belt ran out. The last one in the squad jumped into their foxhole, striking Barber across the side of the helmet with the butt of his rifle and kicking Norman to the ground.

The alien pointed the barrel of his rifle at Norman as the human struggled to free his Recon combat knife from his leg sheathe. But before the alien could pull the trigger or Norman reach his blade, the first napalm canister landed less than ten feet from the hole.

The initial blast itself was Biblical in its proportions, but it was nothing compared to the secondary effects. Flames swirled in every direction, greedily consuming everything that it touched. The alien standing in Norman's foxhole, still standing upright, was enveloped. The thing emitted a noise that sounded like a scream and a bird call combined as it toppled backwards.

At the bottom of the hole, Norman found himself gasping for air as the fire sucked all the oxygen away. His lungs felt raw as they inhaled the last remnants of heated oxygen, but he didn't dare jump up to find new air, not with the hungry flames swirling above his head.

For a few seconds, he could almost see Hell.

The concussive wave of another bomb blast disrupted the flames as quickly as they had sprung up. Norman didn't chance sneaking his head above the rim of the foxhole to find out what had happened, but he felt every single moment of it as multiple groupings of encased high explosive fell on the park. Modified daisy cutters, three thousand pound 'dumb' bombs, shrapnel bombs, sabot tipped missiles, all turned the lush Botanical Gardens into what began to resemble the surface of a very beleaguered moon.

Somebody managed to scream above the din of the explosions. "Put it out! PUT IT OUT!"

"Hold still!"

Norman could hear the voices coming from one of the foxholes on the far right. Who was in there? Corporal Bruenner and PFC...

"What the fuck, man? You just pissed all over my arm!"

"Yeah? Well the fire's out you dumb..."

A stray piece of shrapnel whistled through the air, cutting the speaker's voice off before his defence was finished.

"Mick! I'm sorry! Medic! MEDIC!"

"STAY DOWN!" Nothis sounded over the chaos. "EVERYONE STAY DOWN!"

"We've got wounded!"

"EVERYONE'S GOT WOUNDED! STAY DOWN OR WE'LL HAVE MORE DEAD!"

"This is ridiculous!" Somebody screamed. "Who the fuck are these guys anyway?"

Norman couldn't think up a satisfactory answer as he pressed himself closer into the bottom of his foxhole. The bombs didn't let up, the cries of the human wounded and dying joined by that of the alien attackers.

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In orbit, Admiral Fautan Xiliatus listened to the screams of the ground troops as they burned. Explosions, gunfire and screaming...never-ending screaming...were all that the comm links were receiving.

"General Arterius has issued congratulations to the fleet," Fautan's executive officer cleared his throat. "He says that we have gained a foothold on the enemy planet for acceptable losses. Having analysed the enemy defences, reconnaissance forces have determined that they possess no significant anti-ship weapons in the area of operations. We are to prepare to move into low orbit and prepare for orbital bombardment."

Fautan did not reply immediately. When he did, his mandibles moved slowly. "Acceptable losses?"

Tutmos did not even blink. "That _is_ what he said, sir."

Protocol prevented Fautan from leaping across the deck and slapping the Commander senseless. He needed to know that the Commander saw through this as much as he did, that he recognised what was happening...that he possessed an ounce of compassion for the warriors slaughtering each other beneath him.

Tutmos remained motionless. "Shall I order the crew to prepare for descent?"

Fautan looked down at the new stripe on his arm. "Yes...of course. Inform the weapons crew to load high explosive torpedoes. And load a bombardment round into the main gun, not a ship buster."

"At your command," Tutmos nodded.

They had promised him a quick victory. Rapid, painless, efficient. A primitive people brought to heel without excessive conflict. This was not rapid, painless, or efficient. He had started this conflict at Relay 314. He had given warmongers his aid in staging this attack. This was his fault. The blood being spilled was on his talons. He bowed his head, two words hammering through his brain.

_..._

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Gurung watched the read out on the screen. "Damn."

Williams nodded bitterly. "Looks a little bleak."

Harper looked up. "Care to clue me in? We just bombed an enemy landing zone out of existence."

"And used up a lot of ordnance," Gurung indicated red dots on the map. "Our supply dumps are getting a lot of heat. I don't know if we'll be able to resupply all our bombers, certainly not for more than one or two more rounds."

"Still, First-Fourteenth has bought itself some time," Shepard pointed at a city zone marked in yellow. "First Militia Regiment has been overrun at the stadium, they're falling back to the line Pressly's Second-Fourteenth is setting up here. Once we get air support back on line, we can carpet bomb that LZ..."

"Carpet bomb?" Roberts shook his head. "They'll put every bit of air cover they can over that bit of airspace. Our fighters won't even get close. We need to pull tanks and IFV units from the fighting at Katyan to retake that zone."

"Seventy First is already stretched to the limits, take away their armoured assets and they'll get slaughtered!" An artillery major snarled.

"Then pull everything out of Katyan, we need to fortify Outreach or we lose it." Roberts was beginning to sweat. The bunker's air conditioning wasn't of the highest quality.

"Brilliant idea, Commodore. Take two battalions of tanks and a regiment of light infantry and make them travel sixty miles over open highway." Gurung narrowed his eyes. "Our air support is almost non-existent, those men would be bombed into the ground. You had your chance to stop this attack in orbit and you failed, don't try and give us advice on how to run a ground war."

"This is what you call running a ground war?"

Williams slammed his hand on the table. "Both of you! Quiet!"

There was silence in the command room for a few seconds as the General stared both of them down. The tension that had been building since early morning had come to a head. Avoiding it was pointless, it had to be dealt with. Williams spoke in measured tones, careful to keep his voice neutral. "Bickering over strategy gets us nowhere. There will be no pissing contests in my command centre, is that clear?"

"Perfectly sir," Gurung's expression didn't budge an inch, neither did Roberts. Both of them knew better than to question the General's orders, but neither of them broke eye contact until Williams turned back to the tactical map.

"Sir, if I may?" Shepard tapped the screen, drawing a large circle around the whole city. "As you can see, the circle represents the war zone. If we break the city into roughly four parts, it works out something like this. In the top right, the stadium, where the enemy has established an impregnable landing zone. In the top left, the park...crater...where First-Fourteenth is currently regrouping after the airstrike. In the bottom left, our reserve forces occupying the entertainment district, tanks and infantry from Thirteenth Armoured. And in the bottom right, Third-Fourteenth in the industrial zone, still holding the spaceport."

He drew a smaller circle in the middle of his first one. "And here's us. City Centre, right underneath the high rise district, with Second-Fourteenth tooling up for a street fight around the skyscrapers."

Shepard looked at Williams. "We've bought ourselves a momentary lull, but we don't have the assets to exploit it. But, we are in the perfect position to rethink our battle strategy. It's clear to me that we can no longer fight this along conventional lines."

General Williams shook his head. "I disagree, Commander. I still have air cover and armour, along with a numerical advantage over my opponents."

"Your numerical advantage will be eliminated when the enemy deploy their next wave of reinforcements. And our situation is far more fragile than it seems," Shepard's eyes flared. "Thirty percent of First-Fourteenth are KIA, almost as many wounded. Their CO, XO and most of their officers are dead or dying. The enemy LZ is destroyed, but they've got multiple units still ensconced in that district. We have downed pilots all over the place, militia companies cut off from reinforcements and a battle plan that's been shot to shit."

"Gurung?" Williams continued to meet Shepard's gaze.

"Yes, sir?"

"Order Colonel Pressly to move his third battalion into position to reinforce First."

Gurung listened to his headset. "Can't do that, sir."

Williams turned to face him. "Why not?"

"Colonel Pressly is reporting that Second-Fourteenth has engaged enemy troops in pursuit of First Militia. The enemy is spreading out, encircling First-Fourteenth from their position at the stadium. First battalion is cut off and surrounded." Gurung lowered the headset. "Sir..."

"I know, I know..." Williams looked at the circle on the map. "We've lost the initiative."

"You have to admire them," Harper looked at the new tactical data. "Impressive tactics, encircling a battalion. Forces us to try and rescue them. They're looking to own this engagement, dictate the terms of the battle. How do we respond?"

The General was silent for a few seconds. When he looked up, there was a gleam in his eye. "We do something unexpected, that's what. Order all units to hold their ground. If necessary, they are to go hand to hand, but don't let the enemy break through to Central just yet. Shepard?"

"Sir?"

"Is your strike team ready?"

"Colonel Gurung's Gurkha squad, Harper's mercenaries and Colonel Borodin's Incident Response Team." Shepard rattled off. "Twelve good men and women, and they're itching for a fight."

"Now they've got one," Williams pointed at the upper left of the map. "I want you to break through to that cut off battalion. Find a way to lead them out, get them back to our lines. Think you can handle it?"

"The surface in that area is crawling with hostiles." Shepard indicated the traffic-cam footage. "We'll have to take the sewers."

"Sergeant Mulligan will get the codes for you," the General looked towards Harper. "I hope you're ready to get your feet a little muddy, Jack."

"You mean I have to earn my pay at last?" The mercenary stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Well, you couldn't keep paying me to sit around forever."


	14. To Lead and Serve

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Fourteen: To Lead and Serve

I don't own BioWare

Diversity. That was the key to the continued growth of a species. Numerous ideas could only come from numerous backgrounds. The spark of genius could only ignite the fires of development if rich, poor, old, young and everyone in between was arranged in exactly the right time, at exactly the right place.

The turians were no exception to this. One asari anthropologist had spent almost six hundred years investigating the different customs and traditions of the turian clans, a daunting task when one considered just how many different clans there were, and how many different families were part of those clans, and how many household customs each family would have.

When it came to warfare, each clan also had specialty that would be unique to them. Indeed, before the Hierarchy had been formed, each clan would need to hone that unique skill in order to survive. Clan Jhirx, for example, had traditionally produced the fiercest warriors and the finest metalwork. Clan Vakarian had the finest marksman. Clan Hiriax had built its reputation on cunning tactics and clever battle strategy.

It was to Clan Hiriax that the Arterius line had pledged its allegiance. At least, someone, somewhere up the line had taken the oath, and the rest of the family followed suit.

To someone like Desolas, Saren knew, it was bitter medicine to swallow. The Hiriax line was weak, a family of manipulators and cowards. Arterius would have been dominant..._should_ have been dominant, if not for the indiscretions that led to the disgrace of his forefathers. When Jhirx mistakenly referred to his family as 'Clan' Arterius, she meant it as an insult. There was no clan, just two brothers without land, property, or servants, who had won a little honour from minor skirmishes, but never glory in open war.

Saren had never been quite as interested as Desolas in the inner workings of clan and family politics. To him, such things seemed to serve as a distraction. Power, influence...even family pride, these seemed petty and dull when one looked at the big picture. The Hierarchy was only part of the Citadel. The inner workings of one race were nothing when compared to the width of Council space, and the controlled turmoil that existed within it, turmoil that would be far from controlled without the Hierarchy's soldiers. Politicians blustered, diplomats would spout their bombast, but soldiers like him simply endured.

When the Citadel was endangered by the Rachni, it was military force that saved it. When it was threatened by the krogan, military force drove them back. It was a general that had made the call to unleash the genophage on Tuchanka, not a politician. And if civilization as he knew it fell, then it would be soldiers who carved a new one out of the wilderness. Precise application of military power was the eternal safeguard of what many called 'freedom', but what Saren would far more disparagingly regard as three meals a day and paid employment.

But even in a military as structured and rigid as the Hierarchy's, the endlessly fascinating question of diversity remained. Not everyone thought the same way. A different clan would always have a different way of waging war. And the esteem in which a particular family was held would affect the interactions between different clans.

That was why Saren understood the task his brother had undertaken to redeem the name of the Arterius line. Because unless it was clearly understood why they led and others followed, then diversity would rear her ugly head, and cause problems. Problems not easily resolved by a sharp word and a fierce look, but problems that led him to the bridge of a dreadnaught, trying his best to control his temper as he approached Admiral Jhirx.

"I gave instructions that our fighters were to provide constant air cover for the troops, not go chasing off after the enemies." Saren couldn't help but spit out the words. "Why were those instructions disregarded?"

Jhirx gave him another one of her infuriating looks, the half un-intended sneer of a superior officer brushing off a junior one. In the turian military, the final decision of an individual's promotion was decided by that individual's immediate superior. Did they think their subordinate capable of the responsibilities of their new rank? Worthy of the privileges, and capable of the burdens given to them? At times Saren wondered if Jhirx hadn't crawled inside the bed of some...

...no...that was an unworthy thought. Jhirx _was_ a good tactical and strategic thinker. Just a bit too sure of herself for his taste. Never assume that you were invulnerable. Always believe that there is someone who will best you at something, no matter how skilled you might be. His brother had told him that maxim, and they had both learned to live by it.

"Instructions, Lieutenant?" Jhirx put particular emphasis on his rank. "When last I checked, junior officers do not instruct anyone on anything. Yours is a learning position, one where you observe the example of those senior to you in title and ability."

"I apologize, Admiral," Saren bowed his head respectfully. "But in studying a paper that _you_ authored on the correct manner to support a landing in force, I gave advice to Colonel V'Tar that he should follow proscribed tactics and keep his landing forces well defended. His failure to do so has resulted in unacceptable casualties, following the enemy air strike on our secondary landing zone."

"Yes..." Jhirx's tone indicated her own feelings on that matter. "I was not pleased with that report. General?"

"When my brother gives 'advice', he does not usually do so idly." Desolas tapped the tactical map. "We have lost almost a whole korvax to them. I am not eager to explain to a thousand families why their sons burnt."

"These aliens have surprised us too many times for my liking." Jhirx folded her arms behind her back. "I suggest you rethink your strategy, General. I will allow you only one cycle to take this city. After that, we will commence orbital bombardment."

This statement caused Saren to stiffen. "Orbital bombardment of a garden world is forbidden in the Citadel conventions. If an eco-system suffers sufficient damage...enough to trigger a catastrophic disruption of the environment..."

"I am aware of the Council's precious environmental concerns, and I have no use for them." Jhirx's tone bordered on contempt for the triumvirate that had the gall to force dictated policy to the Hierarchy. "Where were their protests when we detonated nuclear weapons on a hundred krogan strongholds? _Verfirnon,_ total war, Lieutenant, means that you cease to be concerned with petty morality and finish whatever war you have on your hands, Spirits damn the consequences!"

Saren was getting tired of apologising for speaking his mind. In his covert operations phalanx, the commander had never rebuked any soldier for speaking his mind. It may not have been protocol, but they had avoided death just long enough for him to be convinced that there was something to be said for the disregard of protocol.

He had earned his place on his brother's staff. He was one of the youngest officers in the turian military, his technical scores were perfect, and his early records of service were exemplary. He'd been lauded by every academy commander and combat instructor for an uncanny aptitude at anything he turned his mind to. Tactics, weapon proficiency...even hand to hand fighting, it all came to him as naturally as breathing.

And yet Jhirx saw him as another foot soldier to be exploited, not an asset to be used. Who could blame her? The old always laboured under the delusion that wisdom came with age, and not with a sharp mind.

Saren swallowed his anger, turned abruptly and left before his temper could spit out something he would later regret.

He heard steps behind him as he descended the stairs leading to the bridge. His brother was following him. Wonderful, another elder to remind him of the limitations of his years.

"She is only exercising her right to..."

"Brother!" Saren growled. "I agree with her on many things. These primitives irritate me with their overweening arrogance, and the one in interrogation angers me with stubbornness. Orbital bombardment is an appealing option...but anger cannot lead us to break our own laws."

"The Council's laws," Desolas reminded him. "Not ours."

"The Council governs much of our lives, brother. Jhirx thinks herself strong for defying them, but it only magnifies her weakness. This species will be conquered, regardless of how much they struggle. In time, they will learn the magnitude of their error in attempting open the Relay. They have shown intelligence, there is no reason to believe that they cannot be tamed in time. And once arrogance and curiosity have been tempered, they will join the Citadel races, having learned the place of a young species."

"Your direction?"

"My direction?" Saren laughed. "It would be easier for them to integrate into the role of a client race if their homeworld was not a barren wasteland."

"You are thinking as a Spectre, not as a turian officer," Desolas reprimanded him. "Your role is not to preserve galactic stability, it is to follow doctrine. And in this hour, our doctrine calls for war. Jhirx is too hasty to declare _verfirnon_, but she will not hesitate if she believes that our plans are threatened. This cannot be an extended campaign, the Council will not allow it. Swift and decisive action is necessary, and I need you at my flank for that."

Saren suffered the rebuke as graciously as possible. He knew his brother had much to teach him. His own life had not yet spanned enough years for him to truly appreciate the guidance he was receiving. And his brother was correct. Despite his aspirations to the Council's elite peacekeepers, his duty was not yet to ensure the Citadel's ascendancy, but rather the dominance of the Hierarchy. And duty was duty, not matter who led.

"What would you have me do?"

"You will be my personal representative to Colonel V'Tar. You will relieve him of command and replace him with Colonel Oraka, on my orders. I should never have placed V'Tar in command of the official landing force. His clan has always been aggressive in battle, but I did not believe he would fail to have his air cover protect the landing zones in his haste to deploy troops. The fault is mine for putting him that position. The fault must be rectified."

Saren nodded. "I will stay when my task is done. My place is on the front, not arguing with Jhirx."

Desolas smiled with faint pride. "Guard yourself well, brother."

"The same to you," Saren retorted humourlessly. "You play a far more dangerous game than I. Should the battle plan fail, the Primarch and your Admiral will hold you down when the executioner comes for your head."

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"I am not going to say it again, so listen carefully this time." Ceris leaned back in the co-pilot's seat of the small salarian skiff. "I'm not seeing a fleet of turian warships, I'm not seeing the results of a massive battle, I'm not seeing the biggest story to hit Citadel space since last season's fashion disasters on Thessia. I'm seeing a dormant relay and a bit of space debris, that's all."

Really, the 'skiff' was a de-commissioned STG scouting vessel that Baya had plucked out of a scrap yard and fixed up. With high grade Denophlix engines, a series of kinetic barrier and ablative armour upgrades from Elkoss Combine, and a trio of rapid fire mass accelerator cannon, it was the perfect vessel for wandering the fringes of explored space, and even flitting from planet to planet around Ilium when the raiding parties from the Terminus were in the sector.

Baya had named it the _Noeb_, after an STG ancestor of his that had drawn a hundred krogan into the swamps of Kor Prime, and killed them all over the course of six months. What that had to do with reporting, Ceris hadn't the slightest clue.

"That's because you're not looking closely enough," the salarian next to her zoomed in with the visual sensors. "Look at some of this debris. Accounting for drift in vaccum, there's probably enough out there to account for one or two smaller ships. And none of the metallic signatures match any known profiles in the database."

"Look, I know I'm not the wisest asari. In fact, if my plane of wisdom were to suddenly implode for reasons unknown, there would be a fairly good chance that all other planes of wisdom would be completely unaffected, but at least I know the difference between hunting a real varren and stalking a pyjak. You're grasping at a tail that has no ridges."

"Ceris, I don't understand these krogan metaphors you spout off, but I'm begging you to look closely at these things. I don't think I can stomach another month of asari spices, let alone another two years." Baya looked at her with those big adorable eyes, and once more her resistance melted.

"Fine," she thought back to commando training and tried to remember something of a brief period aboard a cruiser. "If there was a battle, then there'd be residue on that hull plating. Kinetic stress from a heavy cannon, burns from plasma torpedoes. If we bring a piece of wreckage on board, our equipment should be able to tell us...what is that?"

Baya was thrown off for a second. "What's what?"

"That," Ceris pointed. "Ten degrees to starboard. I saw something. Run a scan for lifesigns."

"Already did."

"Bio-matter then. Flesh, bone, carapace."

Baya inputted the new parameters and activated the scan. "I'm picking up a few readings. Very faint but they're there. One's almost right on top of us...but I can't be certain what it is. Vacuum doesn't do anything any favours."

"Open the airlock and fire manoeuvring thrusters." Ceris stood up. "Let's take a closer look."

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"I've been...considering your brother's perspective." Jhirx announced as Desolas entered the bridge. "Perhaps he is right. We cannot look at this as a short campaign, not when our enemy proves as resourceful as a cornered varren."

"A short campaign is the only option," Desolas lowered his mandibles in an expression of worry. "We cannot long keep the Council unaware of our actions if we..."

"The Council will notice the disappearance of a fleet if we are overly long, but not if that fleet returns to its duties with haste," Jhirx pointed at a list of cruisers. "A fleet can bombard a planet, but it cannot occupy it. With our enemy's defence fleet in ruins, we no longer need such an armada."

"Split the fleet up..."

"Send them on their patrol routes..."

"Keep ten cruisers here..."

"A dozen, to be safe..."

"And we would be given breathing room to deal with the education of this new race." Desolas finished. "Simple, but inventive."

"It also solves another minor issue," Jhirx ascended the three steps to her command chair. "I've been giving thought to the possibility that these aliens might have established a small colony beyond this system, maybe further outside our scanning range. Under the guise of a deep space patrol, a few of our cruisers could search for these colonies."

"Who will you send?"

"Xiliatus. A fine tactician, but his digestive system lacks the fortitude for a bombardment. I will not force him into a situation that is unpleasant for him, not after his achievements," Jhirx sat down, a magnanimous air coming over her. "He will take a small squadron and carry out this task. The rest of the squadrons will return to Council space and resume their patrol routes, like nothing ever happened. We will delay announcing battle honours till Valern has secured Council approval."

"I will inform my troops to redouble their efforts." Desolas left quickly, feeling pleased. His professional association with Jhirx was often muddied by his personal link with her. It felt right that they should finally be working with each other, instead of against.

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There was a small hiss as the airlock resealed. Baya's task was fairly easy. Objects moving through space tended not to make sudden movements without some form of propulsion. The navigation computer was designed to account for the micro course corrections necessary to bring the small object onboard.

Ceris waited patiently as the skiff's VI scanned the object inside. Any toxins, pathogens or other nasty little space bugs would be ruthlessly purged by the various decontamination emitters inside the sealed chamber.

=Decontamination complete= The VI informed her politely. =Airlock now open=

Unlike bigger ships, the _Noeb_ didn't have automatic internal doors. Ceris had to manually release the clamps and roll the door on its side.

She couldn't say that the sight greeting her was unexpected, nor was it a new one. She had seen a dead body before. Two of her sisters had died in zero gravity training exercises on one of Thessia's moons, and she had killed more than enough batarian slavers during her time as a commando. Death was not a new sight...but it still made her wince.

Death could happen to anyone, at anytime, in the depths of space. A hull breach could lead to a horrible decompression, with your lungs exploding, blood clotting and your bones fracturing. The figure that lay on the deck before her had what seemed to be a breathing apparatus strapped on its face, so its lungs were probably still intact. As for the rest? It was nauseating. Blood vessels had probably burst inside the alien's eyes, followed by the rest of the body. Ceris doubted that even a full autopsy would reveal anything about the creature's anatomy. The poor thing's insides were probably scrambled by its organs struggling to survive without anything to sustain them.

It looked vaguely like an asari, minus the breasts of course. Five fingers, blue jumpsuit, a few tufts of hair on its head. Its clothing might have been some kind of uniform, with a stripe on the forearm and a crescent on the shoulder, but she couldn't be sure.

She tapped the internal comm. "I'm not getting anything from this body. Weird looking thing, sort of asari-like."

"Huh? I thought asari looked like female salarians..."

"We've talked about this," Ceris reminded him. "I have no idea what we look like to you, I'm just telling you what this thing looks like to me. And it's definitely like nothing I've ever encountered before. I think we've come across a bona-fide un-initiated species."

"Pre-space flight?"

"Negative," Ceris hooked her fingers around a set of silver tags strapped around the aliens' neck. On the front of them was some kind of alien script, but on the back was a crude representation of a starship in flight. "I'd say we're looking at a pretty developed species. Gotta have mass accelerator tech to be out this deep. We didn't pick up any inhabited planets in this system."

"Could come from deeper in the cluster."

"At sub-light speeds? Four more systems in this cluster, each one of them's about ten years away. Need I remind you that space is big?"

"And just because we can flit around it in weeks doesn't mean that everyone else has it so easy." Baya grunted from the cockpit. "Okay, so a species capable of FTL, reasonably advanced. Still doesn't explain the debris, the bodies, or the turian's presence in this cluster."

"Maybe..." Ceris pondered. "We were getting strange readings from the relay, weren't we?"

"It's still dormant. Those readings could be anything."

"Yeah...but what about the tachyon radiation? That's a side effect of active Mass Relays."

"Seven hundred rads is the average. Our readings barely showed ten."

"What's the decay rate on a hundred rads of tachyon in vaccum? A day?"

"Just about." Baya was already doing the maths in his head. "You think..."

"It makes sense," Ceris unsnapped the tags from around the alien's neck. "A cruiser stumbles on a species activating a relay and fires on them."

"No, it doesn't," the salarian retorted. "In case you're forgetting, we're not looking for one cruiser, we're looking for a hundred. This is a full turian line-of-battle fleet we're talking about. Not to mention all those ground troops. Unless these aliens cruise around in dreadnaughts for fun, it makes no sense for the turians to send that many ships."

"What if they weren't just neutralising someone firing up a relay?" Ceris was already running for the cockpit. "Maybe the threat was bigger than that? Maybe these aliens had a fleet that was more than the turians could handle?"

"Another threat like the Rachni or the krogan?"

"It's possible. That kind of news could cause a panic back on the Citadel. Fluctuating stock market prices, colonial developments demanding military protection. And I wouldn't trust the Hegemony not to start another rant about why they need a Council seat to ensure that Citadel space will remain secure when the turians become overstretched. If you were a turian, what would you do?"

"Do everything I can to contain the threat before it gets out of hand. Then, when it's over, say how easy it was." Baya spun around as the cockpit door opened. "It's a theory. But something's not right with that line of thought. Too little debris. Firefight, not battle. I wouldn't count on more than two or three ships being destroyed here, probably belonging to the new species. The turians can't have wanted a fleet here just to deal with that."

"What's your idea?"

"Not enough evidence to form conclusive argument." Baya's speech became rapid, his words coming closer together, a peculiar quirk for salarians with unusually high intelligence markers. "Too many variables, not enough hard data. Maybe if we did a scouting tour of each system..."

"It'd take eight weeks to explore this cluster thoroughly," Ceris dropped into the co-pilot's seat. "We've only got enough fuel for three. Besides, now that we...okay, what is that?"

This time she was pointing at a flashing light on the board. Baya followed her finger. "That? That's the proximity alert. I set it to notify us whenever a ship came in system."

"What ship?" Ceris looked out the window. "I can't see any ship."

Grabbing her fringe, Baya directed her head toward the LADAR screen. "Those ships."

"Oh..." Ceris felt her stomach unsettle slightly. "Those ships."

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Admiral S'Fal Oraka prided himself on being one of 'the old breed'. It was strange to imagine it now...but there had been a time when turians focussed less on war and military dominance, and more on the finer things in life. The Hierarchy's military strength was unquestionable, but it's culture was beginning to stagnate.

In S'Fal's youth, honour had been earned with integrity and devotion to duty, not through acts of adventure better suited to krogan. His species had been soldiers...now they were becoming warriors. The distinction was a subtle one, but he believed it made a difference between a disciplined fighting turian, and a good killer.

In a way, Jhirx's order hadn't been all that much of a loss to him. A nice, long, luxurious cruise through a few quiet sectors, showing the flag and giving the impression that his squadron hadn't just battered through the stiffest orbital defence he had encountered in his fifty years as a naval officer. The subterfuge sickened him, in a way. But Admirals with two stripes didn't question those with four, especially when the one with two retained his command only by her continued good will. Forced retirement was entirely too unpleasant an option.

It had taken him less than thirty minutes to have his cruisers withdrawn from bombardment positions, and another thirty to retrieve his frigate groups and fighter patrols from their duties. A quick check in to make sure the relay hadn't been tampered with again, and he would be on his way.

Only...the system wasn't as empty as he had expected. His old, blind eyes couldn't tell what the threat was, but his tactical officer was a fast reader.

"Hail them." He stood from his command chair. The _Caraxan_ was an older model dreadnaught, but to him, she was the most effective combat platform in the fleet. "What the hell is a Citadel News skiff doing out this far?"

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"You mean us?" Ceris looked innocently around. "Specifically?"

The turian admiral scowled. "Miss Feon, I'm well aware of your connection with Citadel News...candidly, it's impossible not to be aware of it, considering you're broadcasting your IFF in every direction. You wouldn't be out here if you weren't chasing a story. Would you care to explain what story might be?"

Baya and Ceris looked at each other. They turned back at the same time and spoke in unison. "Dormant relays."

The endless grey orbs that had once gleamed with cunning stared back at them. "Dormant relays?"

"Hot topic on the Citadel right now," Ceris added helpfully. "Should be a huge story once we're done."

The admiral paused. "Interesting...I wish you luck."

Neither the reporter or her cameraman could believe it. There was no way...a ruse that simple just couldn't...it was impossible that...but what if...?

Baya was the first to gain access to his voice. "Thank you for your kind wishes, Admiral."

"Please, think nothing of it." S'Fal turned away. "I look forward to reading your article once it is complete. Should make for a fascinating report."

Baya bit his lip as the comm screen went black. "He knew. He knew what we were out here for, and he let us do it...why?"

"He's not your typical Admiral...not with those eyes..." Ceris turned her eyes back to the instruments. "No one ever claimed every turian was the same."

"What now?"

"We backtrack their FTL trail. Find out where they were coming from, and what's so important that they'd send all these ships. Goddess forbid that it's actually something serious."

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"Sending a pair of reporters onto Jhirx's territory?" Oraka's intelligence officer grimaced. "She might spontaneously give birth to varren pups out of rage."

"Perhaps." Oraka allowed himself a wry flex of his upper plates. "At least then I'll have gotten something other than scorched hull plating out of this event."


	15. Danger Zone

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Fifteen: Danger Zone

I don't own BioWare

Shepard looked around the room. "Time?"

Ben Hislop checked his watch. "Fifteen hundred hours. Sun's gonna be right in their eyes."

"Time to leave then," Captain Kapadia finished locking his gauntlet in place. "The diversionary attack starts in eight minutes."

About twenty men and women were milling about the small armoury. Harper's best mercs, Kapadia's Gurkha squad, Tier One special forces operators and personnel from the garrison's Incident Response forces. Every soldier was fortunate enough to be equipped with a full hardsuit, the armour possessing functioning shields that could withstand almost a half a dozen shots from a Remington mass accelerator rifle.

Weapons were distributed quickly. Half a dozen mass accelerator rifles were available, as were a dozen more mass accelerator pistols produced by FN-H&K, the European weapons giant. The rest of the detachment satisfied themselves with the standard array of rifles, shotguns, sniper systems and sidearms available in the lockers.

"Synch watches off my visor," Shepard instructed as he slipped the headpiece over his eyes. "I've got no motivating words for you. No speech telling you about your duty. You know what the mission is. Go in, find First Battalion, punch a hole back to our forces. Plain and simple."

"Contingency plan, sir?" One of the mercs nodded at the tactical map on the wall.

"If everything goes south? Break off and regroup anywhere where the enemy hasn't landed." Shepard checked his rifle one last time, then attached it to the mag clips on the back of his hardsuit. "If you get cut off from our lines...then your orders are to harass the enemy and cause him as much trouble as possible."

"Let's try and avoid the worst case scenarios for the moment," Harper lit up another cigarette from the stub of his previous one. A regular smoker at the best of times, he'd been going pack to pack since landing on Shanxi. He had a different look about him with his hardsuit on. Less of a dandy, more like...well...like a dandy in a hardsuit, really. "Well...shall we?'

The operators nodded. Weapons and gear were slung into place. They left the armoury in a loose formation, Shepard and Harper leading the way. A few salutes, some whispered goodbyes, and more than a few calls of 'good luck' accompanied them.

Reaching the side corridor where some thoughtful soul had thought to place an emergency access port to the sewers was the easiest part of what would be a long afternoon's work. Shepard tapped in his access code, then sniffed apprehensively as the stench from below wafted up.

"We have to wade through that?" Hislop grunted with disgust.

"What's the matter Ben?" Eva snickered. "Scared of getting your feet dirty?"

"I don't see you volunteering to jump straight down into a smelly pit filled with..."

One of the N7 operators looked at Harper with a raised eyebrow. "The best you could find?"

The mercenary didn't flinch. "The very best."

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If warfare was to be examined from top to bottom by anthropologists, psychologists, philosophers and theologians...they would probably all agree that it was one big gigantic crapshoot. Such was Norman Alenko's opinion as he stretched out another sip from the hydration pack he'd taken off Captain Zhou's corpse. Firefights, he could handle. Desperate close quarters fighting, he could deal with. But it was the waiting that was killing him.

The aliens were still out there, somewhere beyond the mashed up pile of vehicles that the garrison had thrown up as a barricade. But he hadn't set eyes on them since their last attack almost two hours ago. Since then, all he'd heard was the reports of gunfire drifting across from the other side of the city, almost six kilometres away. The other companies had reported sporadic contact, but for now, the invaders seemed to be content to let the battered battalion stew away in the boiling afternoon sun.

The tube ran dry again, what little water he'd managed to scrounge was out. The one thing they needed most for a continued fight, even more than ammo, and they hadn't brought enough. Every man carried two litres of water in his hydration pack, the standard issue for a combat infantryman. Unfortunately, someone had forgotten that the place the Marines were being sent didn't have Earth-standard gravity or an Earth-standard climate. At 1.3 gees, and with a midday temperature that always made it above forty, the average drinking rate of a fully loaded trooper tripled.

"Situation normal." Norman muttered as he savoured the last drops on his lips.

"All fucked up." McDevitt agreed, reaching for a chocolate bar from his ration pack. "Why aren't the taps working? General said he'd leave the utilities on. We should still have running water."

"Water main must have taken a hit from an airstrike, cut off the pipes to this part of the city." Barber reached down from her gun position and broke off a piece of the Sergeant's confectionery. "I heard someone from the mortar platoon bitching about it."

"What I wouldn't give for just one sip..." A private down the firing line uttered longingly as he pushed his helmet back, rubbing at the sweat building on his brow.

The report of a sniper rifle echoed down the street as the trooper slumped back, a ragged hole appearing at the base of his throat, just above the protective chest plate of his body armour.

"Sniper! Everyone down!" Norman rolled out of the way as another shot tore away a chunk of the car he'd been seated on. The Marines ducked into cover, desperate to avoid the continuous, withering fire from the hidden gunman. "Who's hit?"

"Moss!" The medic shouted back. "He's gone!"

"Of course he is," McDevitt didn't seem phased by the new casualty. "After all, our counter-snipers are all asleep, aren't they? That bastard's within eight hundred metres, and they never saw him coming."

"How do you figure eight hundred?"

"Any more and we wouldn't have heard the shot till after it hit Moss."

"...yeah, that makes sense." Norman mentally kicked himself for forgetting the counter-sniping techniques he'd learnt in Recon training. "Somebody get a sniper up here!"

"Belay that!" McDevitt reached for his binoculars. "He's gotta be close, somewhere high. Anyone see the flash?"

Somebody raised their hand. "I saw something on the right side, sixth building down. I call...five hundred metres, max."

"Which floor?"

"No higher than twelve, no lower than eight."

"Shouldn't be too hard to find the shooter," McDevitt smiled grimly. "Barber? You feel like going for a walk?"

"Don't know, Sarge," the gunner looked tense. "Can't we just shoot him?"

"We need intel...and the only way we're gonna get it is if we nab one of these bastards and strap him into an interrogation unit."

"Wait..." Norman looked down the firing line. "I'll take the squad. You're the platoon leader, you need to be here."

McDevitt tensed slightly. "You got a kid waiting..."

"So do a lot of guys," Alenko pushed him back down. "We all take our chances. Besides, I should have some stories to tell him when I go back, right?"

McDevitt's eyes turned back toward the platoon. "Right." He fished a pair of magazines out of his chest webbing. "Sneak out past the western edge, he should be blind in that area. Who are you taking?"

"Barber, Hess and Bruenner should be enough." Norman held out his hand. "See you in thirty minutes?"

The other NCO gave the hand a firm shake. "Thirty minutes. Don't be late."

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To say that Lieutenant Vyrnnus was enjoying the heat would be an over-statement. Relishing would be better. With a natural affinity for heat and an evolved resistance to radiation, a turian soldier was born for fighting in extreme conditions, a fact that the krogan learned to their sorrow. These pink-skins didn't know how lucky they were to have inherited a world like this. Worlds like these were highly prized. Garden worlds with the high temperatures and heavy rainfall that set them apart for agricultural development were rare, considering the billions of barren moons and gas giants that made up the rest of the universe.

Interestingly enough, they didn't seem to have adapted all that well to their native planet's environment. From what he had seen through his scope, the defending troops were sweating and dehydrating at an incredible rate in the sunlight. Amusing, really. Unable to cope with their own environment. A harsher part of him could almost believe that they had been born to be conquered.

Commander Vakarian had dispatched him to do reconnaissance on the alien lines. His report had been long transmitted to headquarters, but he couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. As his middle talon once more rested on the trigger-guard, he felt the usual thrill of the hunt grip his carapace, a delicious chemical reaction to the risk of his situation

His current perch was an almost perfect sniper's nest. About ten feet back from the window, lying in an elevated position so as to look almost directly down on the alien line. In addition, the afternoon sun was in their eyes, making it impossible for the bugs below to see him as he picked them off. They were alert at the moment, staying low in cover, but that would have to change soon, especially when another attack came.

Vyrnnus had never followed any of the various cults that the Hierarchy endorsed, nor had he ever paid much heed to the household gods of his family. But deciding the fate of those beneath him? Who lived and who died? That was practically as good as being a deity.

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On many a three day pass, Alenko had walked the same streets that he now scurried along. Outreach wasn't a city to be compared to Vancouver or Beijing on Earth. It couldn't even match up to the giant metropolis of New Moscow on Terra Nova. But it was a city that was alive. Relatively crime free, filled with friendly faces and laughing children.

Shanxi was a colony at the very brink of large scale development. That's why he'd asked to come here. It was meant to be a stable posting, acting as a reassuring defence force for millions of farmers. Now the empty streets offered nothing but potential ambush sites and lethal cross fire zones. A soldier's paradise turned into a soldier's nightmare.

PFC Hess swore as he tripped over an abandoned suitcase, skinning his knuckles as he landed on the pavement. Alenko turned and knelt down to help him back up. Private Bruenner did the same, as Corporal Barber stopped in her tracks to look behind them. The momentary pause saved their lives.

Barber heard it first, the low rumble of an engine and the crunch of tires on rubble. She ducked behind a bombed out garbage truck, beckoning the others to follow her. "Something's coming."

The squad obeyed her hissed warning, keeping low to the ground as they joined her. Norman took a peek around the corner, keeping his movements slow to avoid detection.

"Sarge?"

"Light armoured vehicle...not one of ours," Norman murmured. "A dozen infantry...probably a heavy reconnaissance team."

Bruenner's hands strayed toward the Portable Anti-Armour Launcher(PAAL) on his back. "Did they see us?"

The NCO didn't immediately answer. He turned back to Barber. "There's some wreckage near the target building. Did we pick up any emergency beacons in this zone?"

"Downed pilots?" The woman shook her head. "No one triggered anything."

From down the street came the echo of a woman's voice cursing bitterly, followed by a string of dull pistol reports. The aliens positioned around the light tank immediately turned toward the source of the noise, the sharp crack of their rifles drowning out the sound of the lighter weapon.

Norman reached for his monocular. "Beacon could have been broken. There's someone in there."

"They outnumber us three to one, and they've got a tank." Barber mulled the problem as she pulled a grenade from her pouch. "Get a high OP...hit the bastard in a weak spot. Mop up the rest in a crossfire."

"We practiced situations like these a thousand times in training." Norman took one last look at the street. "You know the drill, let's make it happen."

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It was a curious thing to stare Death in the face. Your whole body was tensing with naked fear, adrenaline making everything vivid and unforgettable. The fight or flight reflex was dazed and confused, you weren't going anywhere. And every fibre of your being believed that you were about to die.

Weaker souls expired out of sheer terror. Major Tanya Alekseyev had simply held on tight and waited for the end. And when her fighter plummeted out of the sky, bounced off the side of the of an unoccupied office building and slammed into the street, she had been sure that her end was at hand. Supersonic fighters usual didn't just crash, they evaporated. It was the reason you found so little wreckage of the actual plane at high speed accidents, friction and impact practically dissolved even the toughest of reinforced alloy.

She had survived through sheer good luck. Her safety harness had been severed during the crash, impact had seen her thrown from the wreckage of her cockpit and bowled across the ground like a soccer ball. Her relatively low airspeed and the emergency deceleration had ensured that she wasn't travelling overly fast. Just fast enough to break her left leg below the knee and tear her emergency beacon clear off her flight suit.

About the only thing she'd been able to hang onto was her short barrelled pistol, a mass accelerator model. A little present from Mother Russia after she'd aced her final pilot's test and been accepted into the Systems Alliance Navy. And as she pushed aside the corpse of the dead alien scout that had stumbled across her hiding place, she had a few more reasons to be grateful for the gift.

Tanya pulled the trigger again and again, till the heatsink stubbornly refused to tolerate another shot. Bullets ricocheted around her as the bastard's pals closed in on her hiding hole. She curled into a ball, waiting for them to find her, swearing furiously at her broken leg, the bastards shooting at her, and the whole universe in general.

Her teeth rattled in her skull as an explosion sounded, the shockwave sweeping over her. Momentary deafness took her for a few seconds, her eardrums trying to recover from the sudden trauma.

There was a rustle above her, then she felt the awful pressure on her leg disappear as someone tugged away the remnants of her left wing. Then hands pulled her free, dragging her backwards. She could hear anything, but she was free to scream as her broken leg dragged along the ground.

The pain mercifully lessened as her movement stopped. She blinked to clear away the dirt and tears from her field of vision. She could see a human face in front of her, deep brown eyes anxiously looking at her from under the brim of a helmet.

"Hey!" The trooper tapped her on the face. "Hey! You still with me?"

"_Da_!" Tanya grimaced. "I'm still alive. What about the...?"

"Hostiles? See for yourself."

Glancing to the left, Tanya caught glimpse of a burning tank and the mangled corpses still leaking blue blood onto the pavement. "Nice work."

"Yeah," the trooper looked down at her leg. "Broken?"

"Congratulations, Private Obvious," the pilot snarled. "You win the prize."

"Sergeant Obvious, actually," the Marine managed a small grin. "Hold on...Hess! Did you bring the splints?"

"_Nein_," the private finished checking the dead bodies. "Just the stretcher."

The Sergeant didn't panic or swear, but simply beckoned his squad closer. "Alright, Hess and Bruenner, you take the stretcher and get our pilot back to our line. Barber and I will complete the mission."

"But Sarge..."

"Don't argue, just get it done." The Marine turned to leave, beckoning a female Corporal to follow him.

Tanya's last memory of the moment was of the tall Sergeant turning to leave, his jaw set in a grim line.

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"I...hate...stairs..." Barber was already panting by the time they reached the third story. The weight of combat gear was tough on anyone, and Barber had been doing more than her fair share of heavy work during the last twelve hours.

Norman understood the problem, but couldn't spare the breath to encourage her. He was clutching a handheld scanner in front of him, the portable device sniffing for any potential explosive compounds waiting for them at the top of the next step. Of course, the little bastard probably wouldn't recognise any alien explosive signatures, which meant that it was about as useful as sunblock in a supernova. Still, it made him feel better just having it with him.

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Vyrnnus had been keeping an ear open ever since his first shot. No sniper perch could remain hidden forever, but he had banked on at least having the opportunity to make three or four shots. But when the motion detector he had stationed on the fourth level began beeping urgently, he knew it was time to move. He clipped his long rifle onto his back, then retrieved his heavy pistol. One little ambush couldn't hurt.

Moving to the left of the entrance to the stairwell, he settled into a crouch. The first alien to exit the door would take a bullet through the brain. Height and surprise, decisive factors in any gunfight.

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"Okay...hold up..." Barber was panting heavily as they reached the last set of steps. "Give me a second...I'm gonna pass out Sarge."

"No you're not." Norman passed her one of his stim-injectors. "I want you to pop that, you'll need it."

"Stims, Sarge?" The Corporal looked at the injector with disgust. "I don't want that shit in my blood."

"This isn't a field ex," the NCO hissed. "This is combat! So take your damn medicine and get your head in the game!"

Still staring at him viciously, Barber rolled up her sleeve and shoved the injector into her primary vein. Shaking her head to clear it, the gunner nodded. "Alright, I'm good for now."

Bringing up their weapons, the two Marines slowly edged their way up the stairwell. Tapping her on the shoulder, Norman indicated to the left. Blinking in acknowledgement, Barber stepped out of the entrance to the suspect floor, Alenko stepping out to the right...

...and as Vyrnnus' sight passed over the alien's head, he pulled the trigger.

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**A/N: Sorry about the delay between chapters. Uni's been getting back, video games have been getting in the way, and I'm going insane waiting for ME3 to be released tomorrow (we get it a day later than you Yanks). Unfortunately, I can't promise many new chapters over the next few weeks, I'm going to be busy kicking Reaper arase.**


	16. Day of Division

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Sixteen: Day of Division

I don't own BioWare

The military issue combat boot was a hardy item, made of tough leather and canvas. It had to be. Combat was tough on all aspects of clothing. Fabric frayed, material rotted, and boots would eventually just fall apart. Even regular wear and tear took its toll. After nine months, the sole of a boot would sometimes become...unreliable.

Under normal circumstances, Norman would have cursed the grips on his right boot failing him. But as he toppled over with a curse, slipping on stray rubble, the sound of a gunshot and the sudden heat of a passing round had him giving thanks to the shoddy piece of gear. Landing on his back, he rolled to the side. Barber was already shooting, her light machine gun tearing up chunks of rubble. Norman saw a flash of black as something rolled out of cover. Barber swore as she turned to track the sniper.

The alien brought up its own weapon firing twice, narrowly missing the woman. Barber ducked into cover, keeping up her suppressing bursts.

In a firefight, everything slowed down. Norman rolled to the left as bullets ricocheted around him. He looked around for his rifle but couldn't see where it had fallen. Bolting for a pillar away to the left, he yanked his pistol free, then fired in the direction that he last saw the sniper.

"Barber! Why aren't you shooting?" Norman ducked as more shots rang out.

Barber had pulled her own pistol. "My gun's jammed! Belt's all messed up!"

"Shit!" Norman glanced back at his rifle only a few metres away. If he ran for it...could he get there in time? "Cover me! I'll try and get my rifle!"

"Wait!" The gunner reached for something on her belt. "I got a flashbang from supply, I'll throw it and then..."

Norman saw her pull the pin and throw the small device...too late to stop her. "Don't..."

What he experienced next wasn't so much an explosion...more like a noise...a big sound. And pain, lots of that. It was like every sense he had was overloaded. He couldn't see, touch, taste, hear or feel. He staggered in white darkness, unable to orient himself. Something became visible, a strange shape. The same armour...darker than everything else. Black armour. Alien armour. Alien.

He fumbled everywhere, searching for something use as a weapon. Finally he grabbed it, a broken piece of rebar. He scooped up the metal rod, then charged at the shape, battering it all over. The dark thing tried to protect itself, but the human's panic made him strike faster and harder. The thing fell back, beaten, cowering on the ground.

Norman staggered back until he felt a wall at his back. Still pointing the rebar at the prone form, he slowly sat down and waited for his sight to return.

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The Black Watch had long been a source of pride for sects of the Turian Hierarchy that preferred independence from the Council. As skilled and cunning in intelligence gathering as the salarian STG, but possessing striking power, aggressive tactics and advanced weaponry beyond that of even Advanced Shock Phalanxes, the Black Watch had racked up battle honours all the way from the Unification Wars to the end of the Krogan Rebellions. Even Warlord Kurtack's horde had hesitated before engaging a position defended by the turians in black and red armour.

For a regular turian unit, seeing a Black Watch platoon landing was cause for cheering. It meant that the enemy was about to be struck down with the force of a thousand suns. But for a unit commander, seeing one Black Watch officer approaching him was cause for despair. A single officer meant that someone up the chain of command was very unhappy, and was sending someone to tell the unit commander just how unhappy he was.

Colonel Natix V'Tar was experiencing an emotion unlike any other. Frustration at the inability of his forward units to penetrate paper thin enemy defences, apoplectic anger at the incompetent fighters who couldn't keep his skies clear, and mild terror caused by the young officer currently marching towards him.

"What is the hold up here?" Saren barked as he pushed his way into V'Tar's command centre. "Why aren't the heavy vehicles moving?"

"Who the hell are you?" V'Tar blustered. "I won't be spoken to this way by a..."

"A personal representative of General Desolas Arterius?" Saren was within two steps of the Colonel. "Someone who's been sent to find out why you can't beat a group of weapon bearing pyjaks? Take your pick Colonel."

"Sir!" A young turian officer stepped up. "Our initial progress toward the city's centre has been met with stiff resistance. We are progressing, but the enemy has established tank traps, cross fires, ambushes and anti-infantry mines. They know the terrain and have dug in well. As you might know, it is difficult to displace a well entrenched foe. I've returned from my platoon to request a heavy weapons squad to blast through."

"What is your name?" Saren challenged defiant officer.

"Sir...Victus, sir. Adrien Victus. Lieutenant." The turian stood firm.

Saren turned back to V'Tar. "It's a bad sign, Colonel, when your junior officers have more spine than you. Your tactics are sloppy, your wastefulness is costing us time and troops. Where is Colonel Oraka?"

The lieutenant from before, Victus, spoke again. "He's preparing a fresh assault on an enemy gun point."

"Like any good commander should be doing, not cowering in a makeshift bunker," Saren passed Lieutenant Victus a datapad. "Get this to him immediately. Inform him that General Arterius congratulates him on his immediate promotion, and tell him that we look forward to his success as commander of the regiment."

Victus threw a hurried salute. "Of course sir, right away sir."

V'Tar stood up as the junior officer bolted out of the command centre. Red tattoos reflected the anger behind the officer's visage. "And what of me, Lieutenant? Since you have so spectacularly removed me from my command, what are my new orders?"

"If you had any sense of duty left, you would already know the answer to that." Saren took a rifle from one of the guards, then handed it to the Colonel. "But since you're desperate for orders, there's a company preparing an assault on the enemy forces we've cut off from the main line. Take command of it, lead the assault. Be victorious and you may yet reclaim your reputation."

"My reputation was founded when you were nothing but a soft shelled youngling, clinging to your mother's skirts." V'Tar's growl was low and menacing, but he accepted the weapon. "I will crush these rats, and when we return to Palaven, I will call out you and your brother into the public square for this outrage."

"That will depend on the manner of your return." Saren was plate to plate with the superior officer. "If I were you, I'd still be praying for the Spirits to grant you an honourable burial."

Still snarling, V'Tar followed Victus out of the bunker. Looking around the bunker, Saren saw the various staff officers staring at him. "Were your senses as sharp in fighting the enemy as they are in observing me, we would have already won!"

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Ninth Platoon was chosen to advance first. One of only three Black Watch units assigned to the Seventh Legion, the Ninth was the last, and some thought greatest, of the original nine platoons that had served the Senate during the Unification Wars. Oraka had never served with them, his tactical skills deemed too important to waste on high intensity warfare, but he'd seen enough of their work over the years to trust them with the next stage of his assault plan.

Cluster munitions were dropped from the fighter bombers overhead, detonating on the enemy barricades. Oraka's snipers fired in unison, dropping enemy sentries and officers in their tracks.

The first troops moved up under cover fire from the gunships, the heavily armed aircraft viciously suppressing sally ports and gun positions. A few daring defenders shot off a few rockets, only to receive barrages of gunfire in return.

Breaching the makeshift barrier was an easy task for the Ninth. Hovercars and rubble could form a sturdy enough barrier against small arms fire, but could not defend against the heavy klixat demolition charges that the Black Watch favoured, the specially ordered salarian explosives were designed for precisely this kind of work, when you needed a big hole without much shrapnel.

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Major Henri LeBeau was grim faced as he watched the hole appear in his barricades. "Corporal Gray! Tell Alpha Company to spread out along the line, pull Echo and Charlie forward. Throw everything we've got at them!"

"No good." The radio operator yanked off his headset. "Comms are down, they're scrambling our freqs. I can't raise any of the companies."

The tall French paratrooper swore effusively in his native tongue as he grabbed his carbine. "_Merde_, I'll go tell them myself."

"Sir, it's a slaughterhouse out there!" Gray instinctively ducked as another bomb struck the upper floors of the administration building that had become the battalion's unofficial headquarters.

"I'd rather die out there than in here! You stay in here, try and get our comms back up. See if there's any close air available. Symes, you and your squad follow me."

The riflemen clutched their weapons close as they followed him up the stairs into the lobby. The elegant glass windows were long shattered, the doors blown completely away. The stylish black and grey finish had been spattered with bullet holes and blood.

Out on the street the volume of fire had increased. The heavy machine guns were burning through their belts, a wall of metal limiting the enemy advance. Here and there the burst of a human MAC could be heard as the fighters pulled off daring strafing runs below the skyline of the towers.

Henri pulled on his anti-flash glasses to block out the smoke and dust, then rechecked his sights. "We're going to have to cross the street to get to Captain Khafagey."

"Sir, we cross now we'll get shot to pieces." Corporal Symes crouched next to a concrete road barrier. "We've got to lay down smoke!"

"Not enough time! If we don't get our men moving now we lose the whole battalion!" Le Beau pulled his helmet down low on his head. "We go together. Say low and spread out!"

The turian snipers saw the squad and immediately opened fire. LeBeau managed to roll into cover just as the first bullets struck home. Symes and the three men behind him were struck with multiple rounds, their chests turning into mush as the accelerated shards went through their strike plates.

Symes collapsed just a few feet away from Le Beau, his hand stretched out toward his CO, a shout of horror on his lips. Horror on his face, LeBeau tried to reach the NCO, only to feel a spike of pain in his hand. Yanking his arm back, the officer almost screamed as he saw the jagged stumps of the bottom two fingers of his right hand. Before he could react, another gunship roared overhead, dispatching a fresh load of rockets. LeBeau found himself tossed like a leaf, his ears ringing with concussion.

Eventually the buffeting stopped. He found himself lying on the ground, the world swimming in front of him. He slowly climbed to his feet, wobbling slightly as the ringing in his ears intensified. What was left of the barricade was gone, fire now being freely exchanged. The airstrike was working against the aggressors, their meagre cover now completely gone. For a scant few moments, the Marines held the upper hand, their superior accuracy cutting a heavy swathe through the enemy ranks. Only the shield technology of the alien troops saved them from decimation. The rate of fire became increasingly vicious, the ricocheting bullets causing almost as much damage as the shots that hit their mark.

LeBeau staggered through the hail of fire, any remaining thought for safety forgotten as his unsteady legs carried him toward his destination. Luck, or the pity of the enemy marksmen preserved his life, the swarm of bullets not even scratching him.

Slowly gaining momentum, the main force began to move up, light armoured vehicles raking the sides of the buildings, suppressing the gun positions within. Without heavy weapons or tanks, the under-strength battalion could do little to stop them.

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"Friendly coming in!" Private Wyckoff screamed from his mounted gun. "It's the Major!"

Captain Khafagey had never claimed to be a brilliant officer, but he _was_ experienced. Short and stocky, with a neatly trimmed beard, the thirty two year old Iraqi had been part of the 14th Recon Regiment since its formation at Crandall Barracks on Mars seven years earlier, and had served as company commander of Alpha in 3rd Battalion since its deployment to Shanxi. He'd been under fire before, and even now was unrattled by the chaos descending on his head.

"Get him in here, now!" His barked order sent the troopers scrambling outwards, providing more scattered bursts of fire as they half carried, half dragged their CO into cover.

"Good afternoon, Captain." LeBeau murmured as he dropped into a chair. He observed his surroundings with interest. "I think I've had lunch here once or twice. Good bread."

Khafagey flinched as he looked at the taller man. Right hand horribly mangled, left arm twisted at an unnatural angle, the officer was in bad shape. "Sir, we need to get you out of here."

LeBeau shook his head. "Don't bother." He could feel the blood leaking on the inside of his body armour. "That last airstrike didn't do me any favours."

"Don't talk like that." Khafagey grappled with the straps on the Frenchman's armour, pulling the impact plating away from his bloodied fatigues. The field dressings he tried to apply were soaked red in seconds, doing nothing to stem the tide.

"Told you." LeBeau laughed weakly. "Bastards must be packing some kind of anti-coagulant in their rounds, I'm leaking like a sieve."

"Sir..."

"Don't let them pass...got to hold...this..." LeBeau's eyes became dull, the bleeding trickling to a halt as his heart stopped beating.

"Oh, son-of-a..." Wyckoff looked petrified. "Game over, man! Game over! What the fuck do we do now?"

Khafagey gently closed his CO's eyes, then reached for his cast aside rifle. "We hold."

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The blinding light of the flashbang didn't last long, though the ringing in Norman's ears persisted as he got back to his feet. "Barber? You still alive?"

Barber's helmet popped up behind a desk several feet away. She gave him a mute thumbs up. Internally, Alenko debated giving her a tongue lashing about correct use of ordnance, but the urge to play Drill Sergeant just wasn't present. "Get the cuffs, looks like we've got ourselves a prisoner."

It was the first time he'd seen one of their attackers up close and without a helmet. Strange looking creature, that was for damn sure. Nothing like the green skinned or pointy eared beings from the old Earth serials. This thing had a coarse, leathery textured skin...or carapace, rather. Looked tough, with ferocious mandibles on either side of a tucked in jaw, and a set of bony protrusions grouped together at the back of the head. Kind of like an insect...or a really weird type of dinosaur.

"Last time I saw something this ugly, it was in a low budget horror flick." Unimpressed, Barber nudged the sprawled figure with her toe. "You did a real number on him, Sarge. Figure the higher ups want him?"

"He's better than nothing." Restraining the urge to stamp on the thing's face, Norman grabbed the cuffs from Barber and knelt next to it. "We just have to get him down the stairs."

"Why not just toss him down and see where he lands?" Barber's tone was upbeat once more. While Norman's retinas were beginning to ache, he allowed a small smile to slip through, just enough to let his subordinate know that he shared her feeling of momentary elation, however brief it might be.

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McDevitt rattled off a final burst at the withdrawing elements, then lowered his rifle. "Cease fire! Cease fire on the line!"

The result was immediate, the well-disciplined Marines securing their weapons instantly, aside from a few marksmen who took a few seconds liberty to finish their targets. Another dozen alien corpses littered the street in front of First Battalion's main barricade, with three more of McDevitt's riflemen wounded, one fatally. A brief and meaningless victory, with far too much ammunition expended by the jumpy trigger fingers of his men.

The supply situation was beginning to make itself felt. The field manual load-out for a Recon Marine was his rifle and sidearm with three hundred rounds for the former and four spare clips for the latter. Four hand grenades, plus the usual amount of flares and smoke markers, and appropriate ammunition for grenade launchers and anti-tank weapons. 14th Recon, like most of the troops in Recon Wing, usually carried twice that, and made sure to have their ammunition supplies well protected and frequently available.

Nearly every man in the battalion had exhausted their ammunition supply during the initial fighting at the park and in the surrounding streets. Some ammunition had come through, but enemy airstrikes had decimated pre-positioned stores, depriving First Battalion of half its total supply. The constant attacks and the increasing strain on the nerves of the shooters weren't helping matters.

His radio clicked suddenly.

=Boss, I've got movement in my sector= Corporal Kovak's voice was steady, much calmer than the kid probably was.

McDevitt was already moving, pulling his rifle up. "First squad, redeploy and prepare to fire on my mark."

The riflemen moved fast despite their fatigue, their firing line re-arranging itself seamlessly to face down the next threat.

The Staff Sergeant flicked on his visor, scanning for Norman's IFF tag. Nothing. No 14th Recon marker or First Battalion blue. Hostiles. _Smart_ hostiles, moving slow and in cover. He moved a hand to his throat mike. =On my shot, three round bursts, let's take 'em out.=

=Juliet Sabre-One, this is Kilo November-Seven, belay that firing order, friendlies coming in, over!= A new voice crackled to life in his earpiece.

McDevitt froze, but didn't stand down. Kilo November was the recognised callsign of the Incident Response Unit, but there were only six of those, not seven. =Kilo November Seven, this is Juliet Sabre-White. I do not recognise your callsign. Please identify, over.=

There was a rustle in the rubble, then a distinctly human...and female shaped figure stepped out and waved at the Marines.

A burst of static forewarned of another transmission. =Juliet Sabre-White, this is Kilo November-Seven. That should answer your question. We're your ride out of here. Out.=

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**A/N: Figured this story needed an update :) I was sworn into the service of God, Queen and country earlier this afternoon. Now officially a member of the Army Reserve.**


	17. Nightfall

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Seventeen: Nightfall

I don't own BioWare

"Anyone ever think that tracers look like Christmas lights?" Barber cocked her head thoughtfully as she stared at the bullets flying overhead. "I swear, every third bullet I get flashbacks of self-righteous do-gooders smiling approvingly as the other kids squabble over charity toys."

Hess took a swig from a chipped mug. "Kate, are you going to bitch about your whore mother and your truckdriver father dumping you on the steps of an orphanage all night? Or maybe we can hear about your escapades in a street gang for a change? Hey, tell us about the time you spent working in a brothel, that's a good one."

Barber raised her middle finger toward the other rifleman. "Sorry I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my ass like you Hess."

A few feet away, the platoon's acting commander lay in a shallow foxhole with the acting platoon sergeant. Alenko looked at McDevitt. "I swear, I'm gonna shoot those two myself some day."

"You got that right." McDevitt slowly wiped a cleaning rag over the bolt of his rifle. The weapon lay in pieces on the ground in front of him, with a few seconds available to clear the dirt and carbon out of the inner workings. "But go easy on them. Been a long day."

"Copy that." Alenko rubbed his eyes. "I'd sell my mother for an hour's sleep. Can't those mercs take some guard duty instead of sitting in the CP? They've been here for what? Two hours?"

"If the Corps traded in family members, we'd be running the biggest slave business since the Pharaohs. The mercs and the spec ops shitbirds aren't here to reinforce us, they're just getting us out, that's what they told me when they came in." McDevitt rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Sergeant Major Nothis said to say good work on taking that prisoner. He's writing you up for the Terra Nova Cross."

Norman turned slightly. "Bob, we've known each other for a while, right?"

"Longer than I'd like, yeah."

"So I can be straight with you?"

Bob checked quickly, making sure that the other troopers were out of earshot. "Sure."

Alenko was silent for a few seconds. "Do you honestly think I'll live long enough for some big shot politician to pin that to my chest and slap me on the back? Will any of us? We've seen what warzones look like. We've been shot at by insurgents with hunting rifles and pocket pistols. But this? We just had a full strength battalion shot out from underneath us. We're outnumbered, out-manoeuvred and outgunned, fighting something we've never even seen before. Hate to be the pessimist...but I don't think we're long for this world."

McDevitt stared at his disassembled rifle. "Guess I didn't really add it all up before. When you put it like that...shit."

"We're not even trained for this." An artillery shell whistled overhead, landing less than two blocks away. If it was a friendly shell, it meant the enemy was close. If it was an enemy shell...then their spotters were getting better. Alenko instinctively pulled his makeshift sleeping bag tighter. "Reconnaissance. We're meant to flood an area with small teams, call in airstrikes and artillery fire, then mop up. A battalion of us can shatter an army when we've got good fire support. Now we're just line grunts. No LAVs, no mass artillery or constant air, not even a light armour column to back us up."

"Seems a bit of a waste." McDevitt agreed. "Train us all up to be a spearhead unit, then turn us into line animals."

"That's the job." A new voice spoke from behind them. Both NCOs twisted around to see the newcomer. Dressed in jet black, all encasing armour, he was a foot taller than both of them, and considerably more bulky with the aid of his black plates. A red stripe decorated his right arm, with the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander emblazoned on his right breastplate. "I suggest you adapt."

"Yes sir, absolutely sir." McDevitt frowned in concentration, then nodded and smiled. "Consider me fully adapted sir. I am one squared away Marine."

"Glad to hear." The officer smiled ruefully as he squatted next to their hole. "Lieutenant Commander Mackenzie Shepard. You can call me Mack. You two are McDevitt and Alenko?"

"That's us." Alenko wasn't sure if he was supposed to 'like' senior officers, but there was something about the newcomer that he trusted. Honest eyes, maybe. "If this is about those girls that got found in the barracks last week..."

"Cut the crap, Sergeant. Sergeant Major Nothis had some things to say about you two."

"Such as?"

"Such as you're a pair of goofballs who seem to have trouble taking their jobs seriously." Shepard eyed both of them curiously. "But that the two of you probably saved your company and half the battalion by your actions today. Not to mention pulling a downed pilot out of the fire and capturing an enemy officer."

"He's an officer?"

"Auto-translators can't do much, but they can at least identify that he holds our equivalent of a commission, albeit a junior one. Probably a recon trooper, like you boys."

"Doubt that, sir." Alenko grinned. "Recon doesn't let itself get captured. Oo'rah."

"Solid copy." There was an approving growl at the back of the officer's throat. "I've taken temporary command of the battalion from the Sergeant Major. With all the officers you've lost, as well as the NCOs, I'm making some field promotions to fill the gaps. McDevitt, you drew short straw. I'm commissioning you to Acting Second Lieutenant. You'll command this platoon, with Alenko as your Staff Sergeant."

The new officer grunted. "That means about as much as _Staff_ Sergeant Alenko's medal."

"Maybe, maybe not. But this unit is pulling out of here in an hour, and you'll be on the spearhead out." Shepard didn't even flinch as another artillery round touched down barely three hundred metres away. "Lieutenant, fifty percent of your battalion is dead, or too badly wounded to move. Another twenty percent are combat ineffective. You've got three hundred men still shooting, barely three combat effective companies out of the seven you had this morning. But that doesn't matter to your men. They're still looking to you, still hoping you have answers. And if you two are grinning and shooting, they'll grin and shoot along with you."

"And all the men that are dead..." Alenko flared up.

"Will stay dead, no matter how you feel about the universe right now. The best you can do is keep your men alive. We hold until our reinforcements from Arcturus arrive, and then we kick these slant jawed mothers off our planet." Shepard nudged the new Staff Sergeant's shoulder plate. "Get your men up and ready. Second Battalion's been launching diversionary attacks for the past two hours. We're breaking through to them when they launch the next one. Stay frosty."

"Oo'rah." The two soldiers replied quietly.

"Oh, and one more thing." Shepard passed Alenko a long barrelled rifle. "Since you brought the bastard's weapon in, I figure you should get to keep it. Semi-automatic, heat recycling, a damn good marksman's weapon. Enjoy."

McDevitt glanced enviously at his friend's new weapon. "Hey, Norm..."

"Not a chance." Alenko ran a loving hand along the barrel. "This baby's mine."

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The recon lieutenant marked the next position on the map. "Two enemy companies here, looks like heavy infantry. Plenty of big guns, not sure what they can do, but they look nasty."

Pressly frowned. "All right Lieutenant, good job. Tell your men to get some chow and rest up. We'll be moving out soon."

"Yes sir. Thank you...sir." The lieutenant saluted smartly, seemingly heartened by the praise from his superior.

Pressly waited until the subaltern had departed the CP before he spoke again. "Anyone seeing what I am?"

"The patterns?" Major al Rehan stepped up beside him, gesturing to the holographic structures. "I've gotten the same reports back from recon teams that Third Battalion sent out. Enemy forces at company strength stretching themselves out across the city, setting up checkpoints and roadblocks."

"They know how to play manoeuvre warfare, I'll give them that." Pressly murmured. "Restrict our ability to move by holding main routes with smaller units. Harry and harass any attempt to retreat or advance. And we don't have the assets to root them out of our own turf."

"We should counter fast. Use what's left of our armour and lure them in a straight up fight..."

"I'd advise against that. Armour support is still limited. If we play our biggest cards too early, we risk not having enough firepower for the next round." The regiment's battle captain, a junior major, shook her head as she indicated the blue dots on the map. "Our current fuel situation provides plenty for the tanks and LAVs. We can afford to move fast on this one. Once First Battalion is back, we'll have enough of a strongpoint to send out reconnaissance teams to direct pinpoint artillery fire and ambush zones."

"I'm with Major Frost on this one." The lieutenant colonel in command of Second Battalion spoke up. "Our battle plan..."

"Our battle plan is to hold." Pressly cut him off. "Any defensive lines we establish won't hold for long. They can't. Our enemy is landing reinforcements by the hour, while we scramble to rescue stranded elements. Our air cover is getting whittled down and our ammo supplies are being expended on the wall as soon as they become available. Our plan is to last the night. Anything else is a secondary concern. Clear?"

The occupants of the CP nodded. The battalion commander retrieved his helmet from a side table. "I should return to my men. I'll call in for artillery when we begin the diversion."

The rest of the regiment's command staff made their excuses, until only Pressly and al Rehan were left in the room.

"A little hard on them, sir." The Major suggested tactically. "The situation looks bad, certainly, but it is by no means beyond repair. Once our reinforcements arrive..."

"Major, this isn't the Alamo, and I'm certainly not Colonel Travis, staring at the horizon for my relief column." Pressly crossed his arms behind his back. "I plan to fight like I'm not getting any backup, and for all I know, I won't. We have to face the possibility that any and all reinforcements will be late, if they arrive at all. Every attack we make has to be decisive, not just a delaying tactic."

"I get the feeling I'm about to see some piece of strategic brilliance."

"You would, if I had any for you." Pressly suddenly twisted back to the tactical map. "But all I'm doing is redefining the terms of our strategy. We can inflict heavy casualties on them, punish them for all their worth. But we have to let them come to us. Allow them to come in close, then grab them by the belt buckle and hammer them in the balls. We do that and we have a fighting chance."

"How much of a fighting chance?"

"About the same odds as you ever winning the division poker tournament."

"But I don't play..." al Rehan blinked slightly as he got it. "Well...it's better than nothing."

"Sometimes I wonder." Pressly scratched the five o'clock shadow on his cheek. "Is false hope better than no hope? One day of fighting and we're reeling like a punch drunk boxer. When does discretion become the better part of valour?"

"Sir, I..." al Rehan pulled his uniform lapels straighter. "The men and I are ready to fight to the death. You can't kick the fight out of a Marine."

"That's the trouble, Major." Pressly grimaced. "I don't want to see if it's possible. Get the General on the comm, I want authorisation to re-deploy within the hour."

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"Reports coming in from my troops." Desolas turned away from the communications console. "Enemy resistance has stiffened in the main city, but slackened in the others. Colonel Eritus believes that his korvax will have the one in the south completely suppressed by the morning."

"Any luck locating or capturing members of their central government or military command structure?" Jhirx paced the deck. "Anything to force their hand or give us an advantage?"

"We overran a volunteer militia unit guarding our primary landing zone. Regrettably, we took very few prisoners, no senior personnel."

"Are your troops incapable of showing restraint?"

Desolas turned, anger in his eyes. "They are combat troops in a war zone. The goal of the infantry is to seize key locations, hold them against enemy attack and survive to do so again. They are not required to put themselves at risk merely to capture a few of these pink skins."

Jhirx was silent as she glared at him. "General, I believe this conversation would be better continued in the briefing room.

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**CITADEL NEWS SKIFF **_**NOEB**_

**THREE SECTORS OUTBOUND FROM RELAY 314**

"Baya, am I lucky, or just brilliant?" Ceris kicked up her heels on the console in satisfaction as the first long range scans began to roll out on screen. "Turian hull signatures, weapons fire, unidentified hull outlines, plus enough debris to indicate a firefight."

Her salarian compatriot shoved her feet away with a grunt. "I was the brilliant one, you're just lucky you tagged along behind me."

"Whatever." Ceris brought up her omni-tool. "Thing is, we've found ourselves a battle, or what's left of one. Can you imagine the scoop? We'll get our pick of assignments, and our choice of when to do them. No more getting stuck on a planet because of a contract, no more tiny corner offices, no more scavenging for our own gear."

Baya's eyes went slightly blank as he considered the possibilities. Ceris could practically see the images of shiny new hull plating dancing around in his mind. He nodded slowly. "All right, but I don't want to get too close. Turians are trigger happy, and I want to report the news, not show up on it. _Salarian camera man gets turned into space dust_ doesn't sound catchy at all."

Ceris held up her hands in surrender. "Fine, you win. How do you want to play this?"

"We should get some decent long range bursts with the passive scanners, then see if we can manoeuvre a little closer to catch some of the combat. If we're lucky, maybe we can find a hole in the turian sensor grid, then fly down and take some aerial shots of the ground battle."

Ceris sighed. "You make it sound so...dull. The viewers want something exciting."

"Yes, but we won't have to deal with competing footage." The salarian argued. "So it won't matter how distant our shots are, the story will sell itself."

"All right. Let's just hope..." The asari paused. "Hey...what does that little blinking light mean?"

Baya's head twisted. "Oh, that's the emergency counter-measures. I had it installed so we could block...missile locks."

The two reporters looked at each other. Baya looked down at the ladar and narrowed his eyes as he saw the two fighter signatures appear on the readout. "Oh...kriff."

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Jhirx had barely entered the briefing room, preparing the sharply worded reprimand of her subordinate, before she was storming back out, the communications officer practically jumping off his seat. "Report!"

"Ma'am, we have an un-identified infiltrator, five million kalaks out and closing. Our fighter picket just locked onto them."

"No IFF?"

"No ma'am, but the hull signature is salarian."

"Hail them." Jhirx snapped. "What the hell are salarians doing out this far?"

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=Un-identified craft. Stand down your engines and identify yourselves. If you do not comply, we will shoot you down.= The gravelly voice of a turian fighter pilot informed them gruffly.

Ceris reached out and slammed her hand on the comms button. Baya made no move to stop her, they had both seen enough turian military operations to know that the threat was not idle. "This is Citadel Space Vehicle _Noeb_! We are a Citadel News Net team on a research mission. Please, don't shoot!"

=You have entered a region under conflict. Power down your engines and surrender your ship. If you do not comply, you will be fired upon in accordance with Citadel law.=

"There's no such law." Baya hissed. "Any Citadel ship may traverse freely through any sector provided they are not rendering aid to any enemy force!"

=Power down and...=

Baya reached for the thruster switches. "That's it. Ceris, we're leaving. Setting course for the Kellian Relay. They won't waste time chasing us."

"Agreed." Ceris glanced regretfully at the viewscreen. "Biggest story I'll ever have, and the damn turians ruin it."

"We'll be back." Baya's hands worked the start-up sequence for the FTL drive. "And when we do, we'll..."

He froze slightly. "Did you run the purge through the computer systems when we jumped in?"

Ceris twisted her head slightly. "No. That's your job."

Despite her advanced engine suite and next gen surveillance equipment, the ship's navigation systems were ancient. It wasn't really a problem. Nav systems were designed to be foolproof, and knew enough advanced mathematics to fill in the gaps. But to make sure that the nav computer didn't confuse the co-ordinates, it needed to be thoroughly wiped and reset from the manual backups after each jump. Otherwise, an attempted jump would send the skiff flying in two directions. Not a pleasant thing to see...or experience.

"I was busy running the scanners." Baya frantically typed in the command sequence for the purge. "When I'm doing that, it's your duty to run the purge."

"When did we agree on that?"

"It was in that last mail I sent you. You know? The one after that night at the Kirick?"

"I don't read the mails you send me."

Baya looked momentarily outraged. "Oh? So THAT'S why you never came to my nephew's adulthood ceremony on the Citadel!"

The tactical console began spitting out urgent warnings as the two fighters locked on to the tail of the skiff. The transmitter lit up again. =This is your final warning! Power down engines and prepare to be towed!=

Ceris reached forward and flicked off the comm. "Boring conversationalist."

Baya twitched again. "I think we should surrender."

"We surrender and we could lose the ship. We definitely lose our story, AND spend time in a turian brig." Ceris set her jaw. "They won't fire on a civilian ship. It'd be PR suicide for them."

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"I've had enough of this." Jhirx looked infuriated. "Order the fighters to shoot them down."

Shock appeared on the young lieutenant's face. "Ma'am?"

"Are you deaf, officer?" The Admiral snarled. "Blast that skiff into oblivion."

The lieutenant slowly turned back to his console. He haltingly reached for the transmission switch, keying the comm line to the fighter patrol. "Patrol Twelve, this is the flagship. Admiral's orders...Admiral's orders..."

"Get on with it." The lieutenant at the neighbouring console hissed at him.

The communications officer removed his hand from the switch, standing up to face Jhirx. "I am sorry ma'am, I cannot follow that order."

Jhirx nodded in understanding. "That is regrettable. Lieutenant Bistola, relieve Lieutenant Childeric of his post. Sergeant of the Guard, confine the lieutenant to his quarters."

The bridge crew looked away as their companion was marched away between two Lancers. Desolas raised his left mandible in surprise. "Were he in my command, I would have him thrown in the brig to await court-martial."

"I just instructed him to kill unarmed civilians. Morality clashed with duty. You and I would not have made that mistake, but that is why we are flag officers, not Lieutenants. He will learn his lesson scrubbing out the plasma relays for a few months. Discipline will be enforced, but I won't permanently lose a valuable officer. Lieutenant Bistola, is the word given?"

"The word is given, ma'am." The junior lieutenant reported. "Fighters report that they are engaging."

"I could easily do without days like these." Jhirx felt a slight unease in her stomach. "Contact the galley, tell them to send up some tea. I'll take dinner in my state-room in an hour. Will you join me, General? My chef makes an excellent Kirelli soup."

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The skiff shuddered as the first laser bolts connected with the shields. Baya was thrown forward in his seat, cracking his head sharply on the console. He slumped over, green blood leaking from split skin.

"Baya? Baya!" Ceris tried to glance at her friend while hurling the skiff into a series of evasive manoeuvres. The improved hull plating that Baya had spent weeks installing was showing its worth. "Come on, wake up. I need you to get the FTL drives spun up!"

A loud banging noise started in the rear compartments, even as the VI calmly informed her that the primary fuel cells were failing.

Baya muttered drowsily as he glanced around. "Emergency backups won't last long. Need to set down."

"Down? Down where?!" Ceris tapped in a new sequence of commands, glancing backwards at the rear hatch as she did so. "The turians are fighting a war on that planet, and Goddess damn me if I'm going to set this bird down in the middle of a full blown..."

=FTL generators are now offline. Aft hull plating is down to thirty percent. Backup fuel cells at approximately 80%= The VI spoke up again.

Ceris felt her right knee twinge slightly as old memories began jumping up at her. Batarian slave camps on Gei Hinnom. Turian shock troopers and asari commandoes everywhere. Anti-aircraft fire so thick you could walk to the landing zone.

"Oh, become a reporter!" She snarled at herself as she swung the _Noeb_ toward the planet. "Never have to see another battle! Where do I get these _vreshnak_ ideas from?!"

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The alien rifle felt odd in Alenko's hands. It had been made with someone taller in mind, whose centre of gravity was further back. It was muzzle heavy, with an awkward hand grip and trigger guard. But the butt rested comfortably against his shoulder, and allowed him to conserve ammo for his conventional weapons.

Almost ten blocks over, the sound of gunfire was increasing. Second Battalion was stepping up its advance, with the occasional thud of heavy cannon fire indicating a moving tank battle. They couldn't maintain a proper counter-offensive, but their temporary breakout would make the aliens send reinforcements towards them, leaving gaps open in their lines which the remnants of First Battalion could stagger through.

Ahead of them, Shepard raised his arm. The N7's eyes scanned the streets ahead of them. "Alenko, on me."

The Staff Sergeant moved quickly, reaching the front of the column. "Sir?"

"Our lines are close. Get everyone down, I'll take a team forward and find the best path through. In the meantime..." Shepard's words slowed, his head cocking to the side. "Can you hear that?"

Norman frowned. "I don't..."

The sonic boom made him flinch, the fear of orbital bombardment lurking at the back of his mind leaping to the fore. But he'd seen orbital bombardments before, the training runs on the moons of Terra Nova, with their micro-atmospheres providing enough resistance to the heavy shells to make them worth practicing on. The shock wave would have been louder for a shell...and he would already be dead.

He looked up instinctively, knowing that every man in the unit was doing the same. A ball of fire descended from the skies, its trajectory flattening as it tried to evade the fighters chasing it. A ship in distress, fleeing for safety on the ground.

"Must be one of ours." Barber appeared at Norman's elbow, hefting her weapon slightly as she stared up. "She won't make it."

Her penchant for stating the obvious aside, Norman knew she was right. The ship couldn't shake its pursuers, receiving multiple hits as it slowly plunged toward the city. Plunging...towards...

"Get down!" Barber yelped as she dived towards a shell-crater. A second slower, Alenko and Shepard piled in on top of her, feeling the brief rush of heat as the ship passed overhead, clipping a tower block and sending rubble crashing down on the Marines in the street below.

Briefly stunned, Norman lay prone as the dust settled. A crushed Corporal Barber snarling underneath him brought him back to reality quickly.

Shepard was already on his feet, his eyes tracking the path that the ship had taken. "She's less than half a click that way."

"Sir." McDevitt had moved up. "Sir, we gotta get the battalion moving."

"You keep going." Shepard answered without taking his eyes away from his path. "Alenko, get your squad and follow me. We're going to secure that crash site. If it's our boys, we're going to evac them. If it's not, then we'll figure something out."

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Ceris was absolutely certain that whatever good fortune she had stored up had been well and truly used up. Her angle had been perfect, despite the holes that the fighters were shooting in her hull. The long road had been an almost perfect landing strip, and she might have set it down without a hitch if a last minute thruster glitch hadn't thrown her briefly off course into that building. But she was alive and barely scratched.

Baya hadn't been so lucky. His safety harness had broken as the _Noeb_ smashed into the building. He lay against rear console suite, groaning slightly, semi-conscious and bleeding. Ceris couldn't tell how badly he was hurt, but the angle of his leg indicated a bad a break.

Almost in a daze, Ceris undid her harness, falling to the right slightly as the unnatural perch of the ship turned the right side of the ship into the floor. "Baya...you still alive?"

Baya gave a slight nod, his eyes slightly closed. His rapid metabolism would allow him to heal rapidly once his wounds were set. The Republic of Armali had given Ceris good medical training during her commando years. She could patch him up just fine, she just needed the medkit and some space. But not here. She'd picked this LZ for a reason. Commandoes were good, _very_ good, at hiding. While her skills were rusty from a few decades of inaction, she could still vanish when needed to. Turians, whatever aliens had picked a fight with them, she could deal with.

It took her less than a minute to set Baya's leg and patch up his head. Then, kicking open the emergency hatch, she extricated herself, then gently lifted the salarian out.

Her head was still ringing from the impact. She had no doubt that there was at least a mild concussion to deal with, but if nothing else happened, she could take care of everything.

Something else happened.

She heard the footsteps barely two seconds before she was tackled into the broken pavement. Snarling with pain, she twisted around, trying to get free. The click and snap of metal on metal made her freeze, then came the feel of cold metal on her skin.

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Alenko pressed his rifle tight against the alien's skull. "Gotta give it to you, sir. Your prisoner's nicer looking than mine."

"Stow it." Shepard grunted as he grabbed a set of wrist ties from his belt. In seconds, he had secured the prisoner, immobilising it with a quick set of tugs. "Grab the other one and scour for intel. Thirty seconds, then we move."

"Sir, we need longer."

"We don't have longer." Shepard reached for his discarded rifle. "Those weren't our fighters. If our guests have something against our new buddies, then they have it against them in a big way. Which means they'll send patrols this way to grab them. It also means that General Williams is going to be _very_ interested to meet them."

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**A/N: Hey again, guys. Been a busy few weeks, getting uni work done as well as Army Reserve training on weekends. After spending more time in the company of soldiers, I feel like I'm getting a better feel for my characters. I can understand them better, see their patterns and personalities in my mates and apply them in my writing.**


	18. In the Interchange of Kindness

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Eighteen: In the Interchange of Kindness

I don't own BioWare

**FLEET EXERCISE 'SABRE'**

**SSV MCKINLEY, 2****ND**** FLEET FLAGSHIP**

**COMBAT INFORMATION CENTRE**

**IN ORBIT AROUND TERRA NOVA**

The SSV McKinley had a smell of newness to her that Admiral Kastanie Drescher appreciated. The second dreadnaught that Stonewall Shipyards had produced and the newest ship in the Alliance fleet, the Everest-class vessel was a symbol for Kastanie. A symbol of achievement, of triumph, of perseverance. For almost five years, the Second Fleet's flagship had been the aging cruiser, SSV London. Not a bad vessel, but certainly not a distinguished one. There had been rumours that Fifth Fleet was supposed to have gotten the McKinley...well, Drescher had kicked up an unholy row over that little story.

It wasn't that she was opposed to Admiral Montes receiving a dreadnaught, she just didn't want him getting hers. The McKinley was her baby. She had fought tooth and nail to get the funding approved, had pointed to the unparalleled success of the SSV Everest in her trials and simulated combat performance, had gotten down on hands and knees to beg the Prime Minister for every last stinking UNAS dollar. She had sacrificed every bit of political capital she would ever possess to get the damn thing constructed, and there was no way she'd turn it over to a jock like Montes to fiddle with.

Montes, of course, had disagreed. The two of them had squabbled furiously, and some very bad blood had sprung up between their two fleets. A variety of fistfights were fought in wardrooms and taverns all over Alliance space. Rear Admiral Mitchum had jokingly suggested that she and Frank settle it with pistols at dawn, and she had seriously considered the proposal.

Fortunately, Admiral Grissom had stepped in. Always the infuriating peacekeeper, he had diplomatically offered Fifth Fleet his own dreadnaught, the vaunted SSV Everest. Still fuming, Montes had accepted, unwilling to tackle Drescher in a boardroom knife fight. Drescher got the McKinley, fresh paint and all, while Grissom had been offered his pick of vessels and officers by a grateful Fleet command. Flag officers didn't act up often, but when they did, the results were often messy. Amazing how grown adults turned into children whenever a new toy got handed out.

Admittedly, Kastanie did feel a little like a spoilt child as she sat on her comfortable command chair in the middle of her spotless bridge, but the undeniable sense of satisfaction at having fought the bureaucracy and won balanced everything out. Besides, Grissom had managed to get three new cruisers and a carrier out of the uproar, so he wasn't exactly short-changed.

Even so, she had a sense of aching surety that Admiral John Grissom would be doing all he could to make her life hell today. First Fleet had never lost a battle exercise, and they seemed quite eager to defend their record. But today, Drescher had the dreadnaught, the battle positions, _and_ the freedom of manoeuvre. Today, _she_ would be the one kicking ass.

"Ma'am, contacts are coming up." Captain Crawley examined the tactical display. "Recon patrols. Light frigates."

Drescher stood, clasping her hands behind her back as she strode toward the map. The giant hologram of Terra Nova showed the situation clearly. On her side of the planet was the decoy force. She'd committed her dreadnaught, a quarter of her cruisers, half her frigates and most of her fighters to here. Grissom had done exactly as she expected, bringing in his reconnaissance force from the Veritas system. Excellent move, considering that Veritas linked to three other star systems in the cluster, any one of which could be used as a staging area.

Grissom would see her force was under strength. His hamster wheel brain would immediately recognise that she was keeping her reserves hidden away somewhere. He would either send in more recon patrols to sniff them out, or would bring his main force up immediately, risking a gambit to destroy the decoy force before she could bring her main battle groups out from behind Elliot and Hamil, Terra Nova's moons. If she could tickle his gambler's instinct, he'd throw his dice on the latter table.

She planned on moving fast enough to beat that gambit.

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**SSV GALILEO, 1****ST**** FLEET FLAGSHIP**

**STAGING AREA 'AQUINAS'**

"Recon patrols are showing that Admiral Drescher is reacting according to Contingency Martel." Commander Trang kept his grin concealed as he approached Admiral Grissom. "She's split up her force, just like you predicted, sir."

"Not exactly." John Grissom grunted. "I was sure that she'd keep the McKinley in reserve, deploy more cruisers to hold that defence line. She had to know that I wouldn't be fooled by this."

"Fooled, sir?" Trang sometimes wished that he had taken up chess. Then, maybe he'd be able to understand the complicated fifty step plans that Grissom was always concocting.

"She has to know that I'll try to beat it..." Grissom shook his head. "We should have planned for Contingency Halsey. That damn woman out-thought me. How the hell did she do that?"

"Sir, shall I order re-deployment for Rear Admiral Brandt's squadron?"

"Negative. Tell him to go for broke. Smash through Drescher's line and tear her guts out. Use those words too, they'll fire him up."

"He'll get slaughtered."

"Just like she expects. But that will give us time to swing the odds back in our favour." Grissom felt a familiar spike of adrenaline light up his spine. The game was most definitely on.

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"Ships coming out of FTL." Crawley's eyes flashed with excitement. "Five...no, six cruisers and twenty frigates. No sign of Grissom himself, but that's the _Krakow_ leading. Brandt's won Grissom his last three exercises."

"And he always commits Brandt to his spearhead." Drescher nodded. "All right, now it's a party. Bring our squadrons forward and get our trap ready to spring. I want to launch the second Grissom sends in..."

"Reading two more squadrons, above and below the forward vanguard." A tactical officer interrupted. "We've now got fifteen cruisers along the line.

"That's a full half of First Fleet." Crawley frowned. "No sign of his carrier."

"He's got his own reserves, just like us." Drescher didn't look worried. "He's testing me out, giving me more and more to chew on until he jumps down my throat. Order Captain Hitchings to engage with his frigates, get those cruisers out of my face. Execute Contingency Glacier."

The vessels weren't actually firing any rounds. Rather, their shipboard VIs were linked with that of their targets, informing them of when a cannon or torpedo was 'fired', then calculating the travel time, velocity, and ultimately the 'damage' done to a vessel. An inaccurate way of deciding who won, since a ship usually took far more punishment than the specs said was possible, but it worked well enough.

The initial 'shots' fired by First Fleet had a good effect on their targets. Drescher's front ranks received multiple hits, several frigates and a cruiser being disabled by the simulated weapons fire. But she had ranged her vessels well, with multiple fire lanes ensuring that Brandt's advance was restricted to 'safer' approaches. It was into these approaches that Drescher had focused her frigate groups.

A battle group of three cruiser squadrons was a formidable force against Drescher's reduced front ranks. The casualty reports began accelerating uncomfortably. Immediately, Kastanie realised her mistake. "Crawley, we need those reinforcements now."

"Ma'am? Admiral Grissom hasn't committed his full force."

"He doesn't have to. His goal is to win. If it takes sacrificing Brandt and his ships to smash my line, he'll do it." Drescher growled. "Bring Rossetti out to play, but keep Admiral Simpson in position."

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"And there it is." Grissom's anticipation was building. "A battlegroup behind each moon. Clever, leaving a little something in reserve. That's new for her."

"Sir? We can only see one group."

"Yes, but I can't see the Tokyo. Drescher's using the moon to bounce scanner readings, making us think that all her remaining forces are engaging us. But the Tokyo has a unique signature, her drive core always flares a little higher than other ships in her class. And since we're not seeing that, I'd say that she's hiding her away somewhere, along with another squadron."

The silence that settled on the bridge briefly irritated him. He was well aware that his men practically worshipped him, that his 'genius' was seen as being on the same level as Hannibal and Patton. Such praise made him uncomfortable. He was not exactly a public man, the parades and publicity accorded to him after his groundbreaking flight through the Charon Relay had done nothing but make him sick to his stomach. That he could recall a detail of a single cruiser was a simple quirk of his memory, it didn't merit the awestruck glances of junior officers.

"What's Admiral Brandt's status?" His question was a little louder than necessary, but it had the desired effect. The crew snapped back to their duties with alacrity.

"He's lost three cruisers, but his frigate groups are mostly intact. He's requesting permission to back off into a battle line."

"Negative, we have to hit her with everything we have." Grissom barked. "Bring our forces in on the flank, now!"

Ten cruisers had already been split from First Fleet in preparation for the secondary attack. Flanking manoeuvres were Grissom's specialty, and this exercise was no exception. In theory, the battle group would cut straight underneath Drescher's battle line, forcing her to divert extra forces away from her front line. It was not the only back up plan, but it was the one on which Grissom was placing some of his most expensive cards.

Waiting at Staging Point 'Jensen', the cruisers were loaded, hot and ready. Grissom inwardly smiled. There was no way that Drescher would see this coming.

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Drescher looked unimpressed as the cruiser battlegroup appeared off the starboard quarter of her formation. "Honestly, does John think I don't read his training manuals? Spring the trap."

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Admiral Grissom raised an eyebrow as he watched the casualty list spring up on his display screen. Eight cruisers disabled almost immediately, with another two 'badly damaged'. "Remote detonated minefields? Clever, Katie. Very clever."

"Sir?" Commander Trang coughed slightly. "If we focus our fire on the right flank..."

"Not while they still have that dreadnaught in my way." Grissom leaned forward. "Commit Gold Group, then bring the FTL online. Time to bring this dance to a close."

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"Ma'am! The Galileo just came out of FTL!" Captain Crawley turned from the LADAR screen. "Admiral Grissom has arrived."

Drescher smiled. So, she had pissed him off enough to bring his last piece onto the board. The Galileo was the newest carrier in the fleet, and Grissom would know how to use her. As big as a dreadnaught, but much less costly, Einstein-class carriers could take a dozen squadrons of X-25 fighters in their internal hangars, and operate a further dozen through their external refuelling and rearming ports. A fearsome weapon.

But she had a dreadnaught. Two kilometres of unadulterated firepower, flanked by most of her fleet. This was her fight, she was in control, and she was about to kick Grissom's ass all the way back to Arcturus.

"Bring up all reserves and deploy every last asset we have." Her orders were sharp and direct as she examined Grissom's formation. "He's not going to hold back."

"We took heavy casualties in the first attack." Crawley reminded her. "Our frigate packs have been decimated. We don't have enough to screen his fighter force."

"Inform Admiral Rossetti that his cruisers are to provide an immediate burst of barrage fire along Grissom's line while the McKinley prepares to fire. If he can..."

"Ma'am!" A new voice yelled over the bustle in the command centre. "You're going to want to hear this."

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Grissom looked over in surprise at the communications officer. "Distress call? From who?"

"SSV Lepanto. Frigate." The comms officer spun back on his chair. "She's still a few systems out, but her comms are working fine."

Grissom didn't bother with any more questions. "Get me Admiral Drescher and send the end exercise signal to all ships."

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"Lepanto was one of the combat ships we assigned to Project Outbound." Drescher looked pale over the comm link. Grissom couldn't blame her. Outbound was Second Fleet's responsibility. Lepanto was one of her ships. "Commander Leichardt wouldn't even tell me how he took damage. Said it was too important to risk over a comm link. Eyes only intel, he said. Straight from Brigadier General Williams."

"Williams? He's not one for panic. Permission to come aboard for the debriefing?"

"Granted." Drescher replied instantly. "We'll meet in my War Room. Bring Admiral Brandt and Admiral Kennedy, we need to get some eyes on this."

"Agreed." Grissom paused for a few seconds, his face betraying a mind doing backflips on itself.

"John?" Drescher prompted him. "You've got that look on your face again."

"It's nothing." The admiral looked away. "Or maybe it's not. I just...I've just got a bad feeling about this one, Katie."

The younger officer tried to smile. "Maybe it's just Williams' idea of a good joke?"

Grissom snorted. "If it is, he can look forward to a staff position at the back of Vancouver HQ. He just cost me my sixth straight win. Half of my fighters were preparing to launch an attack straight at your rear."

The link disconnected before Kastanie could deliver her retort. Admiral Grissom was a man of few vices, but a love of the last word was one of them.

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Leichardt's halting speech wasn't a masterpiece of oratory. In stumbling words and unsure expressions, he managed to deliver Williams' message. But there was no mistaking the content. An invasion. An alien invasion on a human world.

The faces of his subordinates betrayed their emotion to Grissom. Brandt looked angry, his eyes narrowing and his lips parting slightly, an unheard snarl on his lips. Simpson looked...nervous, unsure. Like she could not decide which way to move when caught in the spotlight.

But Drescher, she looked right back at him, and their eyes said the same thing. Things were very, very bad, and about to get worse.

"Alright, Commander." Grissom looked away. "That will be all."

Leichardt nodded. "Sir...I would like to request that the Lepanto be included in the counter strike."

"I said that will be all." Grissom spoke more sharply and Leichardt flinched.

Drescher looked up, concern in her eyes. "Commander. You should get some rest. We'll get your ship into drydock immediately. We'll keep you advised of the situation."

The words had a calming effect on the junior officer. Straightening up, he saluted smartly before leaving the briefing room.

For a few seconds after he left, there was silence. The squadron commanders were unnerved. Only a few of them had ever seen Drescher show something as human as sympathy. Still fewer had ever heard Grissom raise his voice above his usual monotone. For almost a minute, the room was silent. Every man and woman was an experienced officer, leaders who had proved their metal on sea, in the air, or in space. But even then, they would not believe...could not believe, in what they were seeing. Simpson was the first to say it.

"This is insane."

"I'm inclined to agree." Drescher replied drily. "But while Mr. Leichardt was certainly not at his best, he did not seem delusional. John? Your silence is deafening."

Grissom tapped his fingers on the desk, eyes staring blankly into space. A rookie ensign had once joked that John Grissom could see infinity, that it had been imprinted onto his eyeballs on the first run through the Charon Relay. They were probably correct. Drescher hadn't known him well before Project DEMETER. But it was undeniable that after he came back.

Finally, as Drescher began to shift uncomfortably in her seat, he spoke. "Damned waste."

"What?"

"Leichardt." Grissom grunted with a shake of his head. "Shell-shocked. I doubt he's slept in a week. Needs a full psychiatric work-up, can't let him back on the line like that. Pity. Could have used someone who's seen it up close. Have to grab some of his crew, spread them out, get a feel for what we'll be facing."

"John?" Drescher leaned forward and rapped him on the arm. "What do we do?"

There was bewilderment behind his eyes as he looked at her. "What do we do? What can we do? We know nothing about the situation. We don't know if Shanxi's under attack or still waiting. Williams could be dead by now and we wouldn't know. Until those solar storms stop, we're blind to everything past Exaras. Hell, our comms to Earth and the Parliament are still shaky. We don't even have a battle plan in place."

"Plan Gothic-Winter?"

"That's meant to suppress a full scale uprising, not fight an incoming force." Grissom's mind was already turning over solutions. "We'll need to gather the fleets, and fast. The Prime Minister will likely call an emergency session of the Parliament. I'll have to be there...make the case for a quick advance to relieve Shanxi."

"Why don't we just go now?" Drescher looked surprised. "Shanxi is less than a two day jump from Terra Nova."

"Not with these solar storms. Hell, Leichardt's travel time was doubled, and he's lucky we weren't all the way back at Arcturus. Getting your fleet out there is risky, at best. And if...if this is a war, then the Parliament has to be consulted."

"So we sit tight and leave Williams to rot?" Kastanie's answer informed Grissom that not only was she unhappy with his decision, she was downright pissed off. And for good reason. Williams had put his trust in them, trusting that the cavalry would charge in. But the cavalry needed approval from its political masters first. Even Grissom answered to a higher power.

"Williams will hold." Grissom's voice had a ring of false confidence, as if it were himself he was trying to convince. "He _has_ to hold."

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**CODEX: ENTRY R5x**

**ENTRANT: Ella Hirian, Director of History, Thessian Institute of Research, 2230 CE.**

**The rapid rise of the Alliance as a dominant force in the galaxy has more factors than would at first be thought. While the economic situation in the galaxy at large certainly allowed the humans to find a respectable niche, a great part of the Council's willingness to allow the humans into unclaimed and even annexed territory can be traced back to the Alliance's military strength.**

**By the time of humanity's discovery of the Prothean Archives on Mars, the human race was already intimately familiar with space travel. But preventing any major investment in a space-going fleet was the lack of a viable FTL system. After the first flight through the Charon Relay, Earth's major governments, chief among them the United North American States, the Republic of Africa, the People's Republic of China and the Russian-Western Europe Federation, formed a joint military/economic think tank to oversee the proposed colonisation plans on newly discovered worlds. Military projects to create a space going navy were already ongoing, the Archive data accelerated them rapidly. The first space docks were constructed in orbit over Earth in just under three months.**

**As is well known, the think tank eventually proposed the creation of an independent political body that would represent the settled worlds, and give them a political voice beyond that of the governments of their nation-states. This body would grow, and within five years the Alliance Charter would be officially drawn up, and the body established as a legitimate governing force.**

**The military wings of the Alliance sprang up overnight. Largely consisting of volunteers from most of Earth's major militaries, the initial results were not promising. Racial tensions ran high, particularly between the Anglo and European ethnicities that comprised the majority of the Alliance Navy, and the minority groups from China, the Middle East and Africa. Many believed that co-operation between them would be impossible.**

**However, due in no small part to the vision of Commodore John Grissom, and General Victor Michel, the unwieldy force was gradually formed into a tight knit military. The first truly modern patrol cruisers, fitted with mass driver tech and Prothean based weaponry, were launched from the Luna shipyards barely three years after the technical specifics for mass effect technology had been declared open to all nations and peoples by the United Nations.**

**When the Alliance had established an economic presence, it quickly purchased a dozen of the cruisers from various governments, then began to build its own fighting ships. More and more, the Alliance began to take something of a pro-active role in the policing and patrolling of their territory. With an eager workforce and a steady stream of investors, the Alliance commenced a building programme that completely revolutionised the fledgling navy. By 2156, the Alliance had established five complete patrol fleets, as well as designing and building a three kilometre long dreadnaught, the first of the Everest class. It is interesting to note that while it took the turians almost two hundred years of development to design their own dreadnaughts, with the asari and salarians advancing much faster (the asari because of their access to superior troves of Prothean data and the salarians because of their higher than average intelligence markers), the humans outstripped practically all of them. In the early stages of inter-species relations, it was thought by the Council that this was a sign of increased intelligence. To their shock (or delight), they discovered that it was simply a greater eagerness to be ready for an armed conflict.**

**Nominally, the Alliance Navy possessed two dreadnaughts, three carriers, one hundred and fifty cruisers and up to six hundred smaller support ships at the time of the First Contact War. But it must be born in mind that of the cruisers, less than half of them were equipped with heavy mass accelerator cannon, while almost a third of their frigate and corvette wolf packs were comprised of obsolete designs. Nevertheless, the calibre of its officers, among them some of the most brilliant strategic minds ever produced by humanity, was an enormous equalizer in the months that followed the initial fighting.**


	19. Through Eyes to the Soul

The Siege of Shanxi

I don't own BioWare

Chapter Nineteen: Through Eyes to the Soul

_It was good to be able to get out of the city for a while. Throw off all the daily grind and just sit here, on his favourite beach, put his toes in the sand and listen to the gulls. The air was crisp and salty, the waves were rolling high._

_He reached for his board, a beautiful, handmade work of art given to him by his last command. He'd paddle out and ride some of the lighter ones. Then he'd join Jenny in town for lunch at that old seafood restaurant, the same one that they'd gone to on their honeymoon. Would that old hotel still be..._

"_Sir?"_

_A hand shook his shoulder gently. He turned around, trying to find out who had followed him to the beach._

"_Sir?" The hand shook him again, harder._

He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the image of the beach one last time...and then opened his eyes with a grunt. "Henkshaw, I'm going to court-martial you one day."

"Of course, sir." Henkshaw held up a tin mug with a cheerful smile. "Your coffee's just done now, sir. Hot and black, and I managed to scrounge up some bacon and butter. Tuck in."

Easing himself up from the improvised bed, Williams stifled a groan as his weary bones creaked underneath him. Grabbing the cup from Henkshaw, he took a quick pull at the hot beverage, thankful for the momentary flash of alertness that the caffeine imparted to him. "Where's Colonel Gurung?"

"Command Centre, sir. Was asking for you when you woke up. Something about those prisoners that the reconnaissance boys brought in last night." Henkshaw directed Williams to a nearby table and chair, and a plate heaped with as much food as he had been able to scrounge. No military commander worth his salt followed 'time honoured traditions' that had been established by war movies. There was no 'giving up food' for the men. The General ate best because he needed to think best, and that was all there was to it.

"Were you able to find a shaving kit?"

Henkshaw paused slightly at that. "You know, sir, there was a soldier out there who promised to lend me his, I'll just go grab it off him now, shall I?"

Williams smiled as Henkshaw bolted. "God bless you, you beautiful bastard."

Lifting the fork to his mouth, he took his first bite, then grimaced at the taste. "But I suppose you're not a miracle worker."

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Alenko finished his energy bar reluctantly, savouring the last few dry crumbs as he chased them down his throat with a quick swig of water. Not much of a breakfast, but it wasn't very likely that any other grunt was eating any better. The scavengers and skirmishers had found some of the supply dumps intact, but someone further up the chain of command had decided that the runners should leave the food for later and focus on getting ammo up to the shooters. Which would have been fine...if the aliens hadn't then decided to take a few hours off, leaving the Marines with full magazines and empty bellies.

Still, there were worse things to eat than a nutrient bar that tasted slightly like cardboard. Like bugs. Bugs tasted awful.

"Bob, you up?" He nudged the figure leaning against the barricade with him.

"Five more minutes." The short reply let Norman know that the acting lieutenant didn't need any smartass moves to hasten his awakening.

"We're due for guard duty in seven." He reminded his friend. "Yao won't like it if we make him miss chow."

"Screw Yao." McDevitt replied succinctly. "I could sleep for a year."

"Maybe this will help." Armoured boots came to a halt in front of the two soldiers. "Rise and shine, lovebirds."

Glaring up at the morning sun, the two Marines witnessed the rare sight of Commander Shepard giving a genuine smile. In his hands were two steel mugs. "I procured some from your Colonel's personal supply. You two did good last night."

"Yep, that's the Navy for you." Reaching up, McDevitt helped himself to a mug. "Y'know, Norm, the squids bring a little bit of class to what would otherwise be an uncivilized brawl."

"I'll drink to that." Alenko relished the hot, finely ground smell. "You need us for something, sir?"

"For once, no. Just on my way to assist General Williams with 'interviewing' our new guests."

"Guess we'll join you then." McDevitt dragged himself out of his sleeping bag. "Never put an alien through a third degree before."

"Can I handle the water boarding?" Alenko's lips parted in an anticipatory smile.

"Let's try and get some useful information out of him before we move onto the fun stuff." Shepard briefly wondered if the two were joking. They were honest, upstanding Marines who knew the rules of war back to front...and had also lost more than a few buddies the night before. Of course they weren't joking.

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"So..." Ceris looked over at the turian in the neighbouring cell. "What are you in for? Parking fines?"

The turian simply glowered back and said nothing.

Baya rested next to her, his head in her lap. These strange aliens that had slapped them in here the night before had at least allowed her enough materials to splint his leg. Didn't make up for the way the one with the strange voice had fiddled with her scalp crests, but it was something.

She saw all the signs of a typically young species about them. Curiosity, defensiveness...innocence. But she also saw discipline, restraint mixed with aggressiveness, and the naturally stiff posture of soldiers. The one standing guard over them was a key example. Weapon pointing in her not so general direction, eyes concealed behind dark glasses. At any other time and place, she would assume she was in an asari holding cell.

Ceris was still no closer to piecing the story together. So far, all she could see was a little war being fought in a big way. She saw the way the turian and the alien glared at each other, and she knew that blood had already been split, and spilt in bucket loads.

Now if she could only get the turian to talk...

"So what was your name?"

Her persistent questioning finally broke the turian's pretentious sulking. "Vyrnnus. Lieutenant."

"How did they capture you?"

"By accident."

Since he refused to continue speaking on that subject, Ceris decided to leave it alone. "Do you know what's going on here?"

"You're a reporter." It wasn't a question.

"Well..."

"One of my men has a dozen pin-ups of you plastered all over this locker." Vyrnnus continued listlessly. "Human sniper killed him yesterday."

"Humans?" Ceris seized on the world. "They're called humans?"

Vyrnnus didn't answer this one, instead choosing to stare despondently at the wall. "You're a biotic, why don't you break out right now?"

Ceris had already considered that possibility, then dismissed it. "Because however primitive these 'humans' seem to be, they have enough firepower to kill a whole lot of turians. And there are a lot of them."

"If that damned human had not damaged my amp when they took me prisoner, I would break out of here or die trying." Vyrnnus growled. "This is why your people are weak, asari. You live so long that you never accept the inevitability of death, and you honour your deceased sisters so little that there is no glory in risking your life for the cause."

Ceris bristled. "Well there's no need to get insulting. As far as I can see, I'm not the one who got their ass kicked. Nice look, by the way. I'm sure your mother will love the severed mandible look."

"I think I preferred you when you were a silent photo." Vyrnnus eyed her with contempt. "You were better looking then, as well."

Ceris wondered if it was worth ripping the door off her cell just to storm over there and shove the guy's last mandible down his throat. The image brought a smile to her face.

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"As far as we can tell, sir, they're three distinct species." Major Anya Chekov opened the door leading to the cell block, the four marine guards fanning out in front of them to cover the aliens currently taking residence.

General Williams came to a halt beside her. "One looks...human."

"Yes, I was curious, so I ran a DNA test. No markers remotely relating to humanity." Chekov's eyes were alight with curiosity. "Judging by her mamaries, her species is definitely mammalian. I haven't had enough time to properly examine the other two, but from simple observance..." She shrugged. "The big guy's avian in origin, though I can't see any wings. The other one...lizard...maybe."

"They don't seem particularly surprised by each other." Colonel Pressly noted. "Their species aren't strangers."

"Allies?" Williams suggested.

"Or just trading partners. Might even be in a cold war." Chekov shrugged. "Considering how many stages human relations have gone through, we should assume similar diversity in 'intergalactic' politics."

"Sir, if I may?" Shepard stepped forward. "We examined that ship from top to bottom. It had been fired upon. Now, I couldn't be sure, but considering what's in orbit, it's possible that our big friends shot down our little friends."

"So...relations aren't exactly ironclad." Williams nodded thoughtfully. "All right, set up our auto-translators and bring one or two VIs online. Even if we can't interrogate them, we might at least start to understand what they're saying."

"Sir, give me half an hour alone with them, they'll be begging to sing to you." Colonel Gurung caressed the grip of his service pistol unconsciously. "In any language."

"Please don't do that, you just scare everyone." Pressly just shook his head. "Besides, if anyone gets a little one on one time, I have first reserve."

"Reign it in." Williams informed them brusquely. "We operate under all applying rules of war until I say otherwise."

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Ceris stood up hopefully as the cell doors opened. Interrogation had to transcend species, right? They'd had a cooling off period, now would come the meeting with the higher up, the interrogator maybe, or a senior officer. The initial barrage of questions, the offers of mercy and plea deals, the captors intent on extracting as much information as possible before they got their hands dirty. She'd seen the technique, she'd used the technique, and she could count on at least some basic curiosity.

The 'humans' that entered the cell block were unarmoured, though not unarmed. Aside from the heavily armed bodyguards, three of them wore black and grey uniforms with large black pistols at their sides. One of them had breasts, indicating differentiations in gender. Another was significantly shorter, but radiated lethality from every pour, so quietly self-confident that Ceris felt a sudden shiver of apprehension. He would be one to watch. His companion, much older and much taller, reminded Ceris of an old nathlak, a creature even more vicious and strong in its declining years than its young ones, but much better at hiding that strength.

The last one wore a blue jacket with golden trim and had a silvery pistol, smaller than the others. Ceris had seen enough flag officers in her time to know one on sight. The way the others respectfully deferred to him, the authority he projected. Oh, he had the wisdom that came with age, but he was young enough that he had a spark in his eyes. He reminded Ceris of Admiral Wayasha, the cunning Commandant of the Armali Academy. And no one had ever crossed that particular matriarch and lived to boast about it.

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Joaquim had already decided to focus on the one nicknamed 'Ugly' for now. Mostly because they had the most information on this particular bastard's language, but also because the garrison wasn't being attacked by massive hordes of blue skinned women.

Gurung and Pressly had asked to accompany him, and he hadn't seen a reason to refuse. Besides, if the captive needed to be softened up, Pressly would relish the stress relief. No...he couldn't think like that. No matter how many of his boys this..._thing_, had personally killed.

Shepard brought up the rear with a few other shooters. His hardsuit was at least five years ahead of their ballistic impact plating, but they all managed to look damn intimidating in his eyes. Hopefully the effect would transcend species.

"What's your name, son?" Williams stood in front of the cell door, arms folded behind his back. Chekov had given him the basic rundown. Provoke the prisoner into saying something, let the VIs process it, then keep provoking. If drawn into enough conversation, the translator would eventually be able to correspond word with action and object, piecing together a suitable translation matrix for an extended interrogation.

Except the alien didn't say a word, and the VIs remained silent.

He cleared his throat again. "I'm Brigadier General Williams, commander of this planet's military forces. Do you understand me?"

Still nothing.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

Zilch.

"Did you know that your mother is coming to pick you up after detention?"

That provoked a titter of laughter from the helmeted Marines behind Shepard, but didn't so much as stir Ugly.

Chekov frowned. "Sir, maybe a third degree would get a little life out of him?"

"Beating a guy just to make him talk...literally..." Harper flipped a coin idly. "Anyone else think this might look a bit silly on the history vids?"

Pressly frowned. "Who invited the merc?"

"I don't think anyone invites him...anywhere." Gurung turned his attention back to the prisoner. "Sir, maybe it's best if we just turn him over to the surgeons now. Our techs are looking at his armour, but everything we know about them, where their soft spots are, where to aim..."

"You're suggesting taking apart a POW while he's still breathing?" Pressly's eyes narrowed.

"You were advocating beating information out of him a few minutes ago." Gurung challenged. "Do you think the Alliance Articles of War still apply in this situation?"

"The AAWs were written specifically for these situations! We already knew there were aliens back then. And for all we know, these are the same extra-terrestrials who left those ruins on Mars." Pressly looked toward Williams for support. "Sir, we can't consider chopping him up just for..."

"I wasn't." Williams cut him off with a glance. "The docs will have to make do with the dead bodies we've been stacking on their tables. This is the first time we've got a live one. Unfortunately, a live one that doesn't talk isn't much use to us either. If he won't even tell us his name, then..."

"_Vyrnnus_." A woman's voice interrupted them. "_Esha tiani ne Vyrnnus. Vlaljika ne uea Turian Majekaras._"

Slowly, all heads in the room turned toward the opposite cell. 'Ugly' growled menacingly at the blue skinned woman. 

One of the VI's holographic drones suddenly spoke up. "She said: 'His name is Vyrnnus. Lieutenant in the Turian Hierarchy."

Williams stared at the woman, suddenly finding himself fascinated. Her skin didn't really look like skin on closer inspection. It was made of tiny blue scales, packed together and soft enough to look like a variant of human flesh. Her face was a little too angular to meet any definition of 'normal', but it certainly wasn't aesthetically displeasing. If it wasn't for the weird head tentacles, he'd almost swear that it was a human who'd had some serious body work done. Not too uncommon in an age where you could (theoretically) grow a super-soldier or a Victoria's Secret model with just a few basic switches flicked on an enwombed child's DNA.

He approached the other cell. "Can you understand me?"

"Ve." The woman nodded enthusiastically, then rattled off something that reminded Joaquim more of a tinkling brook than of actual speech.

"She said that she is very pleased to meet you." The VI rambled. "And that she would like you to know that her species has nothing to do with this attack on Shanxi."

"You'll forgive me if I take that at less than face value." Williams folded his arms. "How did she learn our language so quickly?"

A second later, the woman spoke back, her tone a number of symphonies which Williams had never heard before and doubted he would ever be lucky enough to hear again.

"She said that she possesses an internal translator, simple enough that we don't pick it up, but advanced enough that it picks up our language, translates it into binary language and sends it out on short burst transmission to any intelligence close enough and smart enough to pay attention." The VI seemed almost...enthused, a far cry from the 'turian' in the other cell, now barking and snarling at the group. "She can understand us, and her translator gives my processors her language in root binary form."

"Major Chekov, would you be so kind as to shut him up?" Gurung stared pointed at the other alien. "Our guest is trying to speak."

"Activate the suppression field."

The blue woman hastened forward in alarm, voice high pitched. The VI followed her almost instantly. "She requests that you do not hurt him."

Chekov flicked a switch, and the alien's shouts vanished, the cell doors soundproofing themselves instantly. "It's not that kind of suppression field...unfortunately."

Looking relieved, the blue alien and the VI began to speak. "She is willing to share knowledge with us, as much as she can without committing treason to her own people. But she also wishes to look at the equipment we took from her vessel, especially a medkit for her friend."

Williams stared at the blue woman. "What is your name?"

"_Ceris, Ceris Feon_." The woman didn't break eye contact with him. There was something in those pools of cerulean blue that surprised the old soldier. She understood him. Not just his language...but _him_. She was a solider too, she held that same pain, that same fear which gripped him was also born by her. The fear of the unknown, the fear of loosing friends. But she kept it under wraps, hidden away inside so she could do her job.

She was like him.

"Open up the cell, and get me a personal translator. Move these two up to the storage level, find them some food and give them back any non-technical equipment we took from their shuttle." Williams reluctantly turned away. "Shepard, Harper. Continue the interrogation. Just make sure he can still speak, walk and piss by the end of it."

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Now that the VI had her translator dialled in, Ceris couldn't actually speak to Baya. But that didn't mean she couldn't talk with him a little, the subtle sign language invented by the STG for conversation between species worked wonderfully well.

_What are you doing?_ He questioned.

_Getting us out of here._ She replied. _Besides, we still need to get a story out of this_.

_We're in the middle of a gang of pyjaks in fancy uniforms, and you're still thinking of the story?_ Had he the use of his mouth, he would have been screaming.

_These are more than just pyjaks. That one, at least...I trust him._

_Why?_

_He has...asari eyes._

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**A/N: Well, for those of you desperate for an author's note, here it is. The end.**

**Nah, just kidding. On a side note, I have realised that I never seem to have any good ideas for the story unless I'm procrastinating from doing an essay. It's embarrassing, but also really annoying. I should be researching, tutoring, running, hell, even working up the courage to call a girl I met at a Masquerade Ball, but I can't do that for at least an hour until this writing bug goes away.**

**Final note, I'm heading to Reserves Basic Training next week, so I probably won't have another chapter done before I leave. Peace out.**


	20. The Scouring

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty: The Scouring

I don't own BioWare

"_It's intriguing when you think about it. A turian is generally slightly taller than your average human, probably weighs a bit more too. Both have similar pain tolerances, similar resistance to heat and exhaustion...humans do slightly better in the cold. But put a human and a turian in a fight, and most of the time people will bet on the human, even if they only win about half of their fights. Why? People expect that human to have something up his sleeve. Some dirty, unexpected surprise that is almost dishonourable, but always successful. That little scrap near Relay 314 gave them a rep, time will tell if they live up to it."-Aria T'Loak, Omega. (2162)_

Williams still remembered his basic training. Off the hover bus at Camp Mathis, herded into the headquarters of Alpha Company, 7th Marine Recruit Training Battalion. Assigned to 4 Section, 3 Platoon under Corporal Tilly, Staff Sergeant Orwin, and Lieutenant Weir. For a kid who had grown up in a military family, the shouted orders and infuriated screaming were not quite confusing, but still terrifying.

Sixteen weeks, designed to teach recruits the basics of soldiering and prepare them for the even more demanding employment training that would await them at their chosen professions. From the very first day, they were beasted, abused, tormented and belittled. Individual identities were erased. No one was lesser or greater than his fellows, all were equally worthless.

They slept alongside each other in cramped barracks, made their beds, ironed their uniforms, polished brass until their fingers ached. They ran until their feet were sore and blistered. They did push ups for every single mistake, ran laps of the obstacle course for every misdemeanour, held their rifles at high port for hours for every patch of carbon found in a barrel.

But out of the fear and humiliation arose giants. Tough and ready men that the Corps could use, that the Corps could mould, upon whose shoulders the Corps would rest. Riflemen, gunners, scouts and snipers, all of them carrying the memories of a Drill Instructor's beating, and all of them cocky as hell that they had gone through hell and kept going.

It had taught him a valuable lesson. Adversity was fertilizer for character. To develop a human's spirit you had to test it. Starve, torment and then chip away till you had a decent human being. He'd kept it mind all through his military career, from OCS to Mars. And he would not forget it now. His men had been through their own trials before this war. They'd all made it. They just needed to make it a little further.

All around the command centre, the staff still sped through their work, plotting enemy movements and directing recon patrols to harass and engage. On the main battle lines, things were becoming too quiet for his liking. The enemy was preparing to hit, and hit hard. Next to him, now only handcuffed, stood the more attractive one of his prisoners.

"Do you have a confirmed count of your dead from the engagement at Relay 314?" Ceris rubbed her dry lips together, wishing for the thousandth time that her hosts shared the asari liking for temperate climates. The bunker was becoming stifling.

Colonel Pressly grunted. "Thirteen science vessels and one frigate. Eight confirmed lost with all hands. Three got off life boats which we recovered. The ASV Necessity and ASV Tolkein are presumed lost with all hands, along with the SSV Leyte Gulf."

"Why do you ask?" Williams tipped his water bottle over into a glass, then passed it to the asari.

"Because they learned your language from somewhere, and they learned it well." Ceris took a sip of the cool liquid and sighed. Gratitude was an emotion that transcended species, evidently. "Even an auto-translator can't do much if it doesn't hear real conversation, with context to the words it hears."

"They've taken their share of prisoners. So have we." Pressly eased out his pistol and placed it next to a cleaning kit on the table behind him.

"Yes, but they'll be keeping those prisoners. You have a few underground detention facilities that will be overrun within the next ten hours. They have ships in orbit that they can take their prisoners to."

"Which ship?" Williams leaned forward with interest.

"Turians believe in centralisation. Those prisoners will be ferried up to the dreadnaught in orbit, right where the Admiral can get to them."

"One dreadnaught?" The strip of hair above the General's right eye lifted slightly. Ceris wondered if this was an expression of belief or doubt. 'They hit us with three."

"Why would they need to keep them?" Pressly's hands moved rapidly around his weapon, stripping it with the ease that came with muscle memory. "they've wiped out our defences. It's a ground fight for now."

"It makes no sense though." Ceris stood up and began pacing. "Turian military doctrine calls for overwhelming force in engaging and destroying potential threats. For them to split their forces before the fighting is done doesn't fit."

"Maybe." Williams brought up the scans of the dreadnaught on the main display. "But things will be tough enough once our reinforcements arrive. That dreadnaught could put a round clear through the Everest."

There was a laugh from the Colonel. "Do you honestly think Grissom would let any of his ships sit still long enough for that? He'll paste these squinty-eyed alien fucks faster than you can spit. No offence."

"None taken." Ceris shook her head. "I don't know who _Grissssom_ is, but he'd better be good enough to beat Jhirx."

"Jhirx?"

She elaborated. "Citadel space hasn't seen a major conflict for over three hundred years. Just a series of minor brushfire wars. Combat experience is hard to come by, but Jhirx has been fortunate enough to be present at every single one that has taken place over her career. She has distinguished herself as a bridge officer, a ship commander and a flag officer. She has more battlefield experience than most officers of her rank. Decorated three times by the Primarch of Palaven, and personally awarded the Citadel Medal of Service by the Council six years ago. Her clan lineage is impeccable, her family name renowned for its leadership and dedication."

"Yeah? Well, Grissom's a tiny Irish, pub-fighting mongrel with a mean streak a mile wide." Pressly cracked a grin.

"I'm more worried about what we'll face down here. Can you give me anything on their field commanders?" Williams caught himself desperately wishing for a cigarette and quietly fumed. He had finally managed to kick the habit less than two years ago, and now the damn stress had him craving the sweet tang of nicotine. He could get one of Pressly's cigars, but the bastard would make him beg for it. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved a small packet of gum and began to chew. Combat sticks dwelt in a morally grey area in the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Flavoured with peppermint and a mild stimulant, they were meant to keep troops awake on long piquets, and prevent a soldier on the verge of collapse from dropping off at the end of a firefight. Good in theory, but the stims were less effective than a hearty cup of coffee. And given the choice between peppermint or a hot cup of joe, Williams would rustle up his grinder every time.

Ceris desperately tried not to stare at the new curiosity. It was probably some kind of jaw exercise. "I don't know which units or commanders you're likely to face. Just their General."

Williams nodded. "Desolas Arterius, you mentioned him before."

"He has even more experience than Jhirx. Some of the smaller wars he's been in have been even bigger than this one in terms of scale of forces." The asari racked her brain for everything she'd ever heard about the soldier. "He's renowned for fast and heavy assaults, punching through with as much force as possible. You've probably already guessed that he likes inserting elite reconnaissance forces to seize and hold terrain, following it up with waves of heavy infantry, then as much armour as possible. From what you've told me, you've managed to stall all three phases."

Pressly just grunted. "Somebody should call him and tell him that Rommel wants his Blitzkrieg back."

Ceris was once again confused. "Rommel?"

"A general from one of Earth's past wars." Williams was distracted by a new battle report. "One of the best to have ever lived. Absolute genius with fast tanks and manoeuvre warfare. Loved using the blitzkrieg, lightning war."

"And he was very successful?"

"Oh, very." Pressly looked smug. "Till he went up against a soft spoken little schoolteacher by the name of Leslie Morsehead and a division of sheep and cattle herders."

Ceris was now totally lost. "I'm not...familiar..."

"There was a battle at a small coastal town called Tobruk, back on our homeworld." Pressly explained. "Rommel rolled up with his Afrika Korps. The best tanks and best soldiers that the world had ever seen. He smashed every force that came at him and conquered half a continent almost single handed. Only thing standing between him and the rest of it was Tobruk, manned by a Major General Morsehead and a single division of troops from a continent called 'Australia'. Everyone thought Rommel would destroy them in a week, but they managed to hold that town for nine months till they were relieved. Rommel was utterly smashed a little while later at El Alamein."

"I see." Ceris began to understand. "And you hope to replicate that here?"

"Here? Oh, no, we haven't got a chance of doing that here. Our only hope is immediate reinforcement." Pressly replied in a surprisingly cheerful tone. "But we _will_ hold the line. I just don't like being on the back foot."

"We'll go on the offensive when it's practical." Williams called Pressly back into line quickly and efficiently. "Now, Miss Feon, I need tabulated data on the weapons that General Arterius's troops are using. Muzzle velocity, range and rate of fire."

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'_We are victims of our own success_.' Desolas pondered bitterly as he examined the newest casualty reports. Thirty percent above estimates. It was unacceptable to him, it would be even more unacceptable to the Council of War and the rest of the Senate of Primarchs when he returned to Palaven. His battle plan had been meticulous, well thought out and almost perfect in size and scope. It was time to admit that it had been shot to pieces over the last twenty four hours.

He was beginning to see the cracks appear in the command staff already. Officers who had previously been reliable, efficient and loyal were beginning to foul up as their commands were decimated down on the surface. Troops who had been eager for battle an hour earlier were beginning to flinch a little as every casualty evacuation dropship landed.

The fault lay with the damn peacekeeping and skirmishing that had been the Legion's main fare for the past six tours. They had perfected their tactics and leadership structures for dealing with the brief and savage conflicts that they came across out on the borders of the Terminus. Squad, Platoon and Phalanx leaders were still sharp, their skills as warfighters had not diminished in the slightest. But from company to division level, officer capability had faded away. Most had just been sitting at their desks for far too damn long.

On second thought, that wasn't fair. The Legion's training rotations had been rigorous, and each soldier and officer had passed their assessments with banners high. They were highly competent. But the humans possessed an entrenched position, were well armed and from the looks of things, their officers were as competent as his own. His initiative of attack, his right as the offensive party, was draining away. Unknowns had severely hampered him. Factors that he couldn't have predicted, but could now correct.

"You there, Officer!" He beckoned over one of the junior lieutenants from the Tactical station. "Co-ordinate with ground control and intelligence. I want lists of High Value Targets ready to be sent out to the cruisers in orbit within the hour."

It was finally time to take off the warm varren hide.

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"So...our friends have prisoners." Pressly did his best not to scowl. "If they took a ship commander prisoners..."

"Bad news, acknowledged." The General hid his own dismay. If a command level officer was taken prisoner, a number of very bad things could happen. Command crew on border worlds knew things that would be very valuable to invading forces. Colony locations and defences, fleet stand to points and numbers. That was an asset that _had_ to be denied to the enemy. "Shepard!"

"I have a problem."

"Sir, I don't know if you've looked around..."

"A specific problem, Commander." Williams gestured at the dreadnaught scans. "I want you to destroy that and retrieve some prisoners."

Shepard blinked, then turned his head to the scans. "You know, sir, I'm not generally one to say a task can't be done..."

"I thought Navy Special Warfare just spent a whole training rotation on tactics for taking down ships in space." Harper questioned.

"That was frigates and light cruisers. Dreadnaught is too tough a target. Protected by the whole fleet, your infiltration vessel is going to get shot down before you get close." Shepard eyed the mercenary balefully. "And if I get on board, there's the security I have to deal with. You can fit near a division of Marines on one of our dreadnaughts, and this thing's about one hundred metres longer than the Everest. And lastly, I have no idea where the engine room, bridge or brig is on that thing. It's a damn suicide mission."

Harper turned his head back toward the scan. "Double my fee and I'll do it, General."

"Well, if Mack's too cautious..."

"Wait." Shepard shook his head. "Sir...what's the classification on this op?"

"Top priority, Commander. Failing to act might compromise our entire frontline, not just Shanxi."

"It'll take time to put together a plan, and I'm going to need more firepower on this one." Shepard jerked his head toward the two Marines standing by. "Mind if I recruit some more of your shooters?"

Williams turned a critical eye on them. "McDevitt, right? And Alenko?"

"Yes sir!" The troopers snapped to attention.

"Gentlemen, Commander Shepard has a penchant for high risk missions. I can't exactly guarantee your safety."

McDevitt shrugged. "Don't reckon anywhere on this planet is actually safe, sir."

Williams nodded. "Fair enough. Shepard, they're yours, along with anyone else you want."

"Just don't take all my good NCOs." Pressly growled. "We're decentralising all command structures. This is turning into a sergeant's fight. My platoon and company commanders don't have enough comms or rally points to keep the chain of command going."

"How well do you know your men?" Harper questioned from the other side of the room, no longer idly toying with his knife.

"Like they were my own bastard children." The colonel responded with his typical bluntness. "Why?"

"Just weighing things up." Harper gazed off to the right. "By the end of today, we're going to have captains leading fireteams. Better hope everyone has the stomach for a street fight."

"Street fight? Bah!" Major Chekova boomed with actual enthusiasm. "That is my people's true art form. That, and grand ballet. Am I right, Petrovsky?"

"_Da_, ma'am." Her orderly nodded. "Many times I witnessed the Moscow performers as they..."

The burly woman lightly cuffed him on the back of the head, a reproving tone in her voice. "Now, Corporal, what have I told you about your jokes?"

"That I will never make Sergeant if I keep making them." Petrovsky's enviously thick moustache twitched with concealed amusement. "Or...you would make me shave."

"Shepard, would you mind taking him off my hands?" Chekova begged the N7. "I keep him around to ferry my vodka, and with all my bottles smashed..."

Shepard glanced over at Petrovsky. The young Russian was thickset and heavily built, but his eyes and bearing indicated more smarts than could be seen at first glance. "What's your CSV like, Corporal?"

"Airborne Guards, then Spetznatz for one tour before I join Alliance." Petrovsky's English slipped a little as he rattled off his experience. "I qualified S5 before transferring to Shanxi."

Shepard was satisfied. "Grab your gear and go with McDevitt."

The comm line beeped urgently. =Sir, this is Captain Khafagey. Enemy forces have increased their attacks along the main perimeter. We're holding steady, but they're moving more and more armour up against us. I need reinforcements and tank support.=

"Negative." Williams turned to Pressly and nodded. The regiment commander understood. "Captain, how many men do you have combat effective?"

=About three hundred, sir. But this is high intensity. My wounded are piling up fast, we're burning through ammo faster than we can resupply and two of my missile launchers have been completely destroyed by enemy fire.=

"All right, listen closely, Captain. We took an enemy prisoner last night. From what we could glean during interrogation, these guys love a straight up fight. Previous plans to bleed them out won't work, they'll just win through attrition. I can't commit more men to the line, that's just playing into their hands. So I want you to retreat."

=What?=

The rest of the room had suddenly stiffened. Retreat was for cowards, undisciplined rabble without the guts to stand and fight. If you needed to fall back and attack from another angle, then you withdrew in good order, you didn't scuttle away with your tail between your legs.

"Captain, we've got tank traps, pre-sighted mortar tubes and sniper alleys set up behind you. If we get them nice and confident, get them to chase you down, then we can kill a whole heap of them at once." Williams urgently explained. "Captain, that's an order. Run."

The comm line was distorted from the sound of gunfire, a scream and a victorious whoop. =Wyckoff, you beautiful little bastard!=

"Captain, are you receiving me?"

=Alright, alright. Pulling them back now, sir. But you better have those traps ready, these guys are right behind us!=

The line went dead, whether because communications had again been cut, or because Khafagey had run into some serious trouble. Williams looked around at the gathered officers and NCOs. "I think that's enough briefing for today, gentlemen."

His unspoken command snapped them into action. Grabbing webbing and personal weapons, the bunker was quickly abandoned. Tech staff dived back into their computers, downloading hard drives onto portable equipment, then erasing the originals. They could not afford to lose the tactical data, but neither could they entertain the possibility of it falling into enemy hands. The age old compromise: Save everything critical, burn everything else.

The three prisoners were efficiently shackled together and marched out. Each one had at least two rifles fixed on them at all times. A Marine MP with a stun baton was also close, his fingers wrapped tight around the hold of his weapon.

Pressly already had his map out as Williams stood at the centre of his rapidly disappearing command centre. "I always told them this place was too obvious, too high tech. Tapping it into the main power grid was just stupid. We'll need to shift between the emergency bunkers, they'll compromise this one by the end of the day."

"Don't those bunkers still have civilians in them?"

"Everyone we couldn't get out by mag train or hopper." Pressly confirmed. "But they're off grid, have their own generators, with enough space for the toys."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay on the surface, co-ordinate what's left of my regiment, maybe even get some shots off." Pressly's smile was faint, but tangible. "You know something, despite everything that's happened, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now."

"Because you're the best man for the job or because you're having fun?"

"A little bit of both." Pressly confessed unconcernedly, but his eyes were hard. "I've got almost a thousand dead boys out there. Kinda hard to think about anything else except how much of that blue blood I've got to spill to make up for that."

"Colonel, you can kill them all and count the bodies." Williams turned away. "Consider that an order."

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"This is madness." Lacriss threw herself down next to Septimus, her middle talon jamming the trigger downwards, cutting down a human who had appeared at the top of the barricade. "The general is forcing us into a clumsy _srisiak_ while these little pyjaks pelter us at their leisure!"

_Srisiak_, heavy war. Or, as Septimus preferred to call it, 'a highly limited, short sighted maneuovre'. It involved jamming assets down your opponent's throat until they choked. Worked against rebels, worked against pirates, didn't work against any force with the self-control and discipline to maintain a continuous stream of fire. The fighting had barely started half an hour ago, and he was already thirty men short, fifteen of them dead outright.

"Never thought you were shy about racking up a few casualties, Vakarian!" Oraka shouted back to her. "You picked up more scars than I did on the Techa Rotation!"

"That was before my husband put two children in me." Lacriss switched to her pistol as her rifle whined and snapped off another two shots at a distant target. There was a loud scream as her target topped from a window. "Now, I'd much rather fight smart and live to make sure that my husband doesn't turn them into miniature versions of himself."

Above their crouching hole at the base of the barricade, they could hear the loud cry of human voices shouting feverishly as a barrage of tank shells raked their gun positions.

=Colonel, this is Lieutenant Victus= The young officer's voice sounded strained. The night fighting had been hard on everyone. Originating on a world as bright as burnished metal, where the sun never really set, turians had never really adapted to the dark. A lot of good soldiers had perished in the black. =Overwatch reports that the humans are in full retreat. Requesting permission to pursue.=

"Granted. Pursue and destroy." Septimus eased back to his feet, keeping his eye open for any humans lying in wait. "Good hunting."

"Skittish species." Lacriss commented. "Poke them one way and they'll hammer away at you. Push them the other and they'll run like suspicious looking space herbivores."

"Don't examine a free kakliosaur in the teeth." The colonel gave her a hand up. "We need to pursue and destroy them before they can re-establish a defensive line."

"No arguments from me." Lacriss checked her grenades quickly. "Do we have new units incoming from the Legion?"

"The 31st and the Honoured 107th." Septimus handed her his own. "Let's hope we don't need them."

Lacriss parted her mandibles in a sign of agreement. "I'd rather not waste any more blood on these primitives."

As Lacriss and her phalanx advanced, she half wished that she was much younger, unmarried and childless. Back then, the thought of death did not terrify her the same way it did today. Back in the Arius Riots, or the Csaile Insurgency, when she charged into battle with foolish valour. But now...the thought of never again cradling Solana, of Garrus having no one to listen to his grand adventures...of her husband receiving the small message of condolence from General Arterius, it was almost paralysing.

'_My last time.'_ She swore to herself. _'My very last time out. Can't risk it anymore.'_

Seeing a human ahead of her, she ducked, hearing a crack as a projectile went past her head. Standing back up, she fired twice from the hip. The human went down in a red mist, screaming in a high tone. From the corner of her eye, she saw another burst of movement and fired off a burst toward it. The human slid into cover, then overarmed something toward her phalanx. The small canister clattered to a halt, then began emitting billowing clouds of grey smoke. A few shots rang out from the phalanx, firing blind through the smoke.

Lacriss held her fire, waiting until she could make out the shape of the second human running back toward his retreating unit, the first human slung over his back. Acquiring a sight picture, she fired three times. The first two bullets missed, but the third took her target through the right shoulder. Then he disappeared into a doorway and out of her sights.

"Move up!" She didn't let her frustration show. The target had been within one hundred metres, a playground shot for a marksman of her calibre. She did not have sympathy for her enemy, she couldn't. Her job was to kill them, whether or not they were rescuing a comrade or not.

"Wait!" Lieutenant Parl looked around, his jaw narrowing. "Something's wrong...they're not firing anymore..."

She heard the dull thumping under her feet, felt the rumble of the pavement, but didn't truly understand either of these sensations until the ground erupted around her. Sent flying by the force of the blast, she smashed through a window, her head slamming against something hard. She felt something crack, let out a small cough, then lay still.

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Desolas had once regarded the prisoner with amusement, as a small toy to be played with at his leisure. And if he broke it in the meantime, it could be easily replaced. That was before. Now he looked at her and all he felt was anger.

Pyjaks. Little better than scampering simians, so devious in their vicious tricks against each other. He'd often heard how little packs of the bastards would sometimes swoop down on varren nests and carry off a pup or two. They'd take the things to the highest of trees, then hurl them down to their deaths. He imagined the primal rage the varren felt at this injustice, the weak and unworthy creatures destroying the potential of their young off spring. It was probably the same burning he felt crawling up this throat.

Another ambush. Another sniper attack. Another improvised minefield or surprise airstrike. Human retreats that turned into turian routs. His men were fighting magnificently, but the _scum_ were still killing them. No turian force had suffered so many casualties in a single battle since the end of the Krogan Rebellions. He had expected a single solid day of fighting, not a slow slaughter. In a species with the temerity to activate Mass Relays on their own, he had expected arrogance, over-confidence and the pride to fight to the last man.

Oh, the arrogance and over-confidence were easy to find, but the pyjaks knew how to retreat. In fact, they loved it. His forces were spread out, vulnerable and dying by the minute.

"Whassa matter, General?" The prisoner's words were becoming clearer as the translator continued to evolve. He could now pick up inflections, emotional markers, and begin to understand certain idioms and tricks of the language. Clarissa Hobbes was becoming an easier puzzle to understand. "You lose something?"

His talons clenched. "Yes, Clarissa. Quite a few of my best soldiers. Not to worry, your own forces have suffered their own defeats. We've even managed to kill your commanding officer in an airstrike."

The prisoner's face sagged in despair. "Not...not General Patton. You couldn't have killed him."

So, now he had a name. General Patton. So that's who led them. "Yes, I'm afraid he's dead. Did you know him well?"

Hobbes burst out laughing. "Oh, pretty well. Considering he's been dead for about two hundred years."

Desolas kept his temper, despite the failure of his deception. "You're braver than I expected. You would have made a good soldier."

From a side pocket on his belt, he produced a small club with an electrified tip. "But you would not have made a smart one. A smart soldier would have kept her deception from me, allowed me to make bad decisions based on false intelligence. Your arrogance is why you are the one in that chair, not me."

Clarissa knew what would be coming. The slaps, the punches, the threats and shouting. All of it she had withstood. But she had pushed it too far. There was a crazed glint in the alien's eyes, more than the determined contempt that had sneered at her before. It bespoke a hatred unlike anything she had ever seen. She tried to look smaller in her chair. "Please...I don't know anything..."

"I'm afraid that I no longer care." Desolas advanced on her with implacable certainty. "Your species seems to like complicated deceptions and clever riddles. Mine does not."

He stabbed forward with the electrified tip, striking her in the stomach. "Oh, I know many of our politicians connive and scheme. I know that Jhirx and Sparatus see me as a disposable tool. But they have forgotten the true turian way. A true turian does not dance around his problems."

He lifted the club high. "He removes them."

**A/N: Well, I had a weird, wacky and slightly terrifying four weeks at basic training, including befriending a Corporal who liked to go into music stores and listen to break up songs while eating Mars Bars when he gets dumped, hastily reassembling my weapon (I named my Steyr 'Miranda' and my Minimi 'Ashley) in the dark during a contact drill, getting called 'Fuckhead' by every NCO in the company, charging through a bayonet assault course screaming 'Kill! Kill! Kill!' and then getting presented with a trophy and a challenge coin for 'Most Outstanding Soldier' by the Commandant of Kapooka. So yeah, good four weeks.**


	21. Burning Skies

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty One: Burning Skies

I don't own BioWare

"_It is a difficult thing to objectively judge war crimes. To be clear, I do not believe in morally grey areas. Either an act is right, or it is wrong, and must be treated as such. But for it to be justice, all the facts must be presented. The actions that many on both sides are accused of did take place, of this there is no doubt. But how many of these acts were prompted by malice, I wonder, and how many by the terror, loss and psychological damage of the circumstances around them? Our investigations shall hopefully reveal these circumstances, and the punishment of the accused ones suitably tailored. But one thing is certain, justice must be served. Both as honour to the dead, and a suitable warning to the living. This will be an interesting few years." –Matriarch Benezia T'Soni. (On being named head of the Council War Crimes investigation following the incident at Relay 314)_

**KREEFT STREET**

**OUTREACH CITY, CBD**

"Move it! Run! Run! Run!" Khafagey screamed as the whine of one of the hover tanks sounded almost right behind him. "Somebody shoot this fucker!"

His stumpy legs pumped underneath him, and he once more cursed and cursed the stupid genetics that meant he was about to get run over by an alien tank in the middle of a side street.

From up ahead, there was a dull thump and then the sound of igniting fuel. He could see a smoke trail climbing upwards, cutting across the morning the sky. Great, now they shot the fucking tank, and here he was still caught in the blast zone. "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna..."

The Rommel IV anti-tank missile was overkill incarnate. Designed to strike an armoured target with enough kinetic energy and explosive force to turn it into scrap metal, they were proving to be very effective against the hover tanks, whose reactive armour and shielding were protecting them against the lighter rockets and grenade launchers the Marines were fielding. The 104 mm piece of ordnance and the launcher itself weighed almost thirty kilograms all up, and when the missile finally struck, it hit with enough force to slam the alien vehicle into the ground, bounce it back up into the air as a burning fireball, then fall back to the street in a smouldering heap.

Khafagey took a flying leap as he heard the explosion, opening his mouth wide and dropping his rifle to clamp his hands over his ears. He landed in a heap behind a destroyed taxi, just before the shock wave passed over him. He shuddered at the sensation and crouched lower as a wave of flames shot over the top of his position. The heat was unbearable, but his eardrums were still intact. That meant that physics had once again spared him, and he wasn't going to die horribly from internal bleeding after being too close to an explosion.

His men rallied, rifles blazing in sporadic bursts as they put down the infantry advancing behind the tank. Ambush, fire and manoeuvre were the tactics being used all along the retreating line. The mortars and snipers were having a field day, but casualties were almost catastrophic.

General Williams had been right. The massed charge of the enemy would have spelled death if they had chosen to slug it out from fixed positions. With armoured support landing, and air superiority now firmly in the hands of the alien invaders, the few Marine units that had disobeyed orders and held the line had run out of ammo and been overrun before they could even send for resupply.

Khafagey hated running from a fight. He'd never run, not during his first war, a bloody border skirmish with Iran. He had not fled when battling the juiced up bodyguards of the Three Kings of Fallujah. And he'd never shown the rebels on Mars his back.

But today, cut, slash and _run_ was the order of battle. And Khafagey would not break from it. Despite his misgivings, it was working. He was losing men by the minute, but he was littering the streets with dead aliens.

The pressure was intense. Soon, they'd run out of ammo for the heavy weapons. Then the aliens would work through whatever clever little VI was jamming their active scanners. And then the human retreat would turn into a rout.

"Yeah, you like that?" Wyckoff was moving back toward the tank, shooting his rifle at something writhing on the ground. "Not so fun when it's a two way firing range, huh?"

Khafagey looked to see what he was shooting at. One of the aliens was trying to crawl out of the way, by the looks of it, it had broken its leg. Wyckoff hadn't killed it, just shot up the ground around it. "Private!"

"Sorry, sir, I'll just be a second." The rifleman lifted his weapon again. "Quick and clean, not like they did to the Major..."

Khafagey rested a hand on Wyckoff's barrel. "Private. He's wounded. Out of combat. ROE says cease fire."

The younger man halted, his expression tense. Barely a month out of Reconnaissance School , the kid was as competent a soldier as any Khafagey had ever seen. But if the stocky officer knew anything, it was that nothing strained a man like watching his friends died. He understood, he really did. But if you picked and chose which rules of war to follow, pretty soon you wouldn't choose any of them.

Wyckoff's head dropped slightly as his rifle lowered. "Sir..."

"Forget about it." Khafagey shook his head. "Private, I need your headspace in this game, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Wyckoff nodded a little more enthusiastically. "Sir, I'm sorry...it's just..."

"You're tired, you're hungry and these things have been shooting at you for two days?" The officer sighed. "Welcome to the..."

A series of sharp reports came from the direction of the ruined tank. A few seconds later, a small squad appeared, a few of their member stopping to check the wounded alien, now lying dead with his head blown open.

The captain wanted to scream, shout, curse, anything, but he didn't have the energy. The uniforms of the newcomers were different to his black and grey digital camouflage. They wore green and brown woodland colours, out of place in the city, but all they really had.

A militia Staff Sergeant walked up to Khafagey, his expression grim. "Thanks for taking that tank out, sir. Bastard killed our CO this morning when we a recce on the enemy LZ. Been tracking it since. Good to send those bastards to hell."

The officer nodded blankly, then turned to Wyckoff. "Private, with me."

The trooper looked as numb as Khafagey felt. The rules of war...such a strange expression. Could war ever really have rules? He'd been taught that it could...that it did...but whose rules was he following? Hague and Geneva were very far away from a side street on Shanxi.

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**EMERGENCY BUNKER BRAVO FIVE**

**BENEATH FINANCIAL DISTRICT**

"Governor Worthing?" Williams looked at the figure approaching him in a torn suit. The small, greying man smiled tiredly at him.

"General Williams. How goes the war?" The governor dropped into the chair on the other side of Williams' improvised desk.

"Sir, I ordered you evacuated on the first available transport." Williams stood up. "You were supposed to be under the mountains by now."

"There was...a woman...she had a kid..." Worthing waved a hand dismissively. "I gave up my slot. And after the first wave hit...there were more important things to do"

"Sir. You are top political echelon. You are needed else..."

"General." Worthing's hands were shaking and bloody, but his voice was deadly calm. "I know that no good soldier cares much for politicians. But I did not come to Shanxi as a politician, I came as a doctor. I was a trauma surgeon in London for twenty years. Here, my medical skills are valuable than my political ones. First the civilians needed their basic needs met, now your soldiers are getting torn apart. Your own surgeons are getting overwhelmed. I'm not leaving."

"I _cannot_ guarantee your safety." Williams informed him bluntly. "This bunker is good for maybe another twelve hours before they either find and kill us, or we have to evacuate."

"Joe." Worthing's eyes didn't look angry, or nervous, or determined. He simply looked...accepting. "You need to hold out until reinforcements arrive. For that, you need men on the line with guns, and people keeping them battle worthy."

Williams was not one to reject help when it was offered. It was either waste time and men escorting a meaningless VIP to safety, or retain a useful asset to his war effort. There was no real choice.

"Doctor Worthing." He extended a hand over the desk. "Good to have you on board."

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"This is Lieutenant Colonel Rico to anyone near the entertainment district. Can you read me?" The militia officer shouted into his microphone as another enemy artillery shell slammed into the side of the building he had taken refuge in. "I say again, this is Lieutenant..."

A voice answered back. =Greyhound One, this is Warhawk. You will use proper Ra-Tel procedure if you want a pickup, over.=

The man blinked slightly at the abruptness of the message. "Just who the hell do you think you are?"

=I'm the one keeping my ID off the net so that the damn birds don't listen in.= The man on the other end snapped back. =Been a long day, Greyhound. Shame to make it longer by making yourself a high priority target.=

Rico slumped back down against the counter of what had once been a four star restaurant. "I'm...sorry. My...my unit, all of Greyhound...we're currently pinned down in the Maravel Building. We've been falling back since morning...birds are kicking our asses. We need ammo and reinforcements if we're going to hold."

=Can't give you that, Greyhound.= The voice was tense. =I'll bring my team in, we'll blast a hole in enemy lines for you to get out.=

"Out?" Rico was almost hysterical. "How the hell are we supposed to get out? We're pinned down and under heavy enemy fire!"

=Greyhound, calm down!= The man's voice was becoming increasingly urgent. =Just hang on, we're coming to...oh no...Lord have mercy...=

Rico felt a shadow cover him and looked upwards. Through the shattered windows, he could make out a grey shape hanging over the city. He blinked, trying to make sense of the image. Then the front end of the mass erupted, and everything turned to dust.

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From where he was standing, Shepard ducked down as the shockwave from the toppling building rolled over him. The air in his lungs compressed and expelled from his open mouth. An easy tactic to avoid injury from a concussion wave, but it still shook him to his very bones.

Beside him, Harper continued to gaze at toppling building, listening to the screams of the militia as chunks of metal continued to fall on them. "Orbital bombardment...right on top of a signal hub. So they _are_ listening into our transmissions."

"We've got to get word back to the General." Shepard flinched again as the grey shape in the sky cut loose with another shell, this one landing less than four blocks away. "Get the word out to cut all radio transmissions."

"You know something?" Harper observed drily. "I think he's probably guessed by now."

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Williams slammed his hand down on the console. "Those bastards. Those motherless sons of bitches! _Fuck!_"

"Quite." Gurung's brow furrowed as he scanned the status reports incoming on the tac map. "Sir, receiving reports from Pressly, Shepard and damn near every other commander left up there. They're hammering all of our strongpoints, assembly areas and supply depots. Casualties are in the hundreds."

"And if we lose our supply caches we lose this city." Williams had feared this moment ever since the blips appeared on his LADAR screen. Orbital bombardment. A force bringing to bear all the awesome power of their mass accelerator weapons. He'd seen the simulations himself. A standard slug could level a whole city, but even a reduced mass shell could bring down a block with ease. "Order immediate dispersal of supplies and troops. Evacuate every exposed bunker and joint command area."

"Sir?" Gurung's voice interrupted his order stream. "Without command groups, we're not going to be able to organise effective counter-attacks."

"We don't have a choice, dammit." Williams turned to his adjutant. "They're wiping out everyone who's squawking up there! Splitting up into fireteams and sections is our only option to keep up the fight without getting wiped out by those damn cruisers."

"Sir, aside from the Fourteenth, our men just aren't trained to fight that kind of war." Gurung indicated the screen. "You're depriving them of the chain of command. We can't win this battle without having effective formations working in synch to mount a defence."

"You don't get it, Colonel." Williams looked away. "The Battle for Outreach is over. They have suppressed and overrun our positions. They have the CBD, the spaceport, and soon they'll have the entertainment district. Our last avenue of escape is the underground tunnels leading to the mountains. We _must _hold and harass them in the entertainment district long enough to evacuate what we can."

"You're abandoning the city?" Gurung blinked in surprise. "Sir..."

"Colonel." General Williams rested his hand on the man's shoulder. "Our only hope is still reinforcement from Arcturus. But that hope no longer lies in Outreach. We've held them as long as we can here. But we're far too exposed. They now have orbital firepower coming into play. We can hang onto Outreach, and lose everything we have left, or we can fall back to the mountains and hold on for just a little bit longer."

"Sir...yes sir." Gurung looked away reluctantly. "I'll...make it happen."

Ceris observed the man's feet as he walked away from the tac map. They dragged noticeably. "He is a born soldier. He does not wish to flee the fight."

"Hmm?" Williams glanced at her. "Oh...yes. Yes...he is a Gurkha."

"A what?"

"A Gurkha." Williams smiled faintly. "Amongst his people, it is a lifelong goal to serve as a soldier. They train from their youngest years to be selected, and only those with exceptional strength, stamina and fighting spirit will ever be chosen. And he is one of the best."

"Ah...they are like the soldiers of my people." Ceris nodded. "It is a long path to become a huntress."

"Is that what you are?" Williams asked, surprised to find himself genuinely curious. "A 'huntress'?"

"I was one." Ceris nodded. "But now I am a reporter."

_...oops._

Williams blinked. "Did that translate right? Did you say you were a...reporter?"

For a second, Ceris was proud of the fact that she had just succeeded in utterly amazing the stoic officer. But only for a second. The next second was spent squirming uncomfortably as she tried to come up with something that didn't sound so...self-serving. "Well...yes. I came out here because I thought I was chasing a story about the turians fighting a threat to Citadel space. Instead...I found you."

Williams blinked again. "I see. I thought you were military intelligence. A spy of some kind. It's why I haven't asked you too many questions. I thought at some point...you'd probably pull some kind of gambit for your freedom."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

"So what now?"

"Now?" Williams shook his head. "Now I need every last scrap of data you can think of about these 'turians'. Or none of us is going to live till nightfall."

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Desolas prided himself on his composure. In a world where his clan was considered an untrustworthy group of schemers, and his family looked down on as borderline traitors, it took thick plates to endure and to get by.

But the fact was, he had had enough.

Striding over the threshold into Jhirx's ready room, he asked her a simple question. "Are you out of your twice damned mind?"

The admiral cocked her head to look at him. "Not your customary greeting, Desolas? Strange, I thought your usual grovelling was far too strong a habit to..."

He struck her, his talons creasing her faceplate with his full strength as he bowled her over. "My men were in close contact to the enemy. You've killed dozens of my best soldiers..."

"And killed hundreds of theirs." Jhirx spat from where she had fallen, seemingly unfazed despite her fall. "Shattered their defensive lines in a few minutes. Something you could not do in days!"

"The Council has prohibited bombardment of garden worlds since the Krogan Rebellions!" Desolas hissed. "A single shot could cost the Hierarchy millions of credits in fines, and _you_ have just released a dozen salvos!"

"And I would do it again in a second, if it meant getting this damn war over with!" Jhirx climbed to her feet. "I received communiqués from the Staff of Generals _and_ the War Council this morning. All of them wanting to know where the hell I am."

"But they know..."

"Not officially, damn you." Jhirx paced towards him. "This war should have been over with by now. These 'humans' should be trotting along beside the volus. Instead, they've destroyed a cruiser, a dozen frigates and almost six thousand of our men. These casualties, Desolas, are _unacceptable!_"

"And so you'll rain down fire from the heavens as an alternative?" Desolas flared his plates. "Jhirx, this species is a tiny one. There cannot be more than five million of them on that planet altogether."

"And from what we've seen so far, most of them are soldiers." Jhirx shook her head. "The Army had its chance to sort this out, Desolas. From now on, the Navy will be handling this. Orbital bombardment is now to be our primary tactic. Your soldiers will mop up when my men are finished with their work."

"I see." Desolas nodded coolly. "Well then...as the Admiral commands. If you will excuse me..."

"Where are you going?"

"To join my men in their 'mop up.'" Desolas nodded, as politely as he could stomach. "Leaving the Admiral to her tactics."

"Very well." Jhirx turned away. "But Desolas?"

"Yes?"

"You would do well to cover yourself in glory. Else I might find an unused rope to repay your blow."

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**A/N: Sorry about the long delay, folks. Army Reserve's been taking up a lot of my time. Never fear, this story is still going strong. In fact, I've finally got a solid handle on where the story is going to finish. The next chapter will see us entering the final stretch, beginning a string of chapters covering the bombardment of Shanxi, Desolas's discovery of the obelisk, and the beginning of the Alliance's relief effort back at Arcturus. **


	22. Exodus

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty Two: Exodus

I don't own BioWare

**CASUALTY COLLECTION POINT 11-ALPHA**

**EMERGENCY BUNKER 12**

**OUTREACH CITY, SHANXI**

**2157**

Norman removed his helmet as he stepped into the main room of the bunker. The first thing that hit him was the heat. Running on low power, the ventilation systems were providing oxygen, and that was about it. The heat was damn near unbearable when combined with the stench of blood and vomit.

"Excuse me." He grabbed an orderly passing him. "I'm looking for a pilot, Major Alekseyeva?"

The orderly blinked for a few seconds. "Look, we've had a lot of people come in during the last few hours...and there's as many dying as get brought in..."

"I know, I know." Alenko spoke over the top of him. "But this is the fourth bunker I've looked for her. Could you take a look through your manifest?"

The orderly looked him over. He noticed the face blackened with dirt and propellant, the torn sleeves, the scorched body armour and the blood streaking down his face from fresh series of cuts on his forehead. He nodded.

"What's she look like?"

"Uh...red hair?" Norman followed him over to a small stack of pads and med-kits. "Broken leg? She was wearing a flight suit..."

"Got her, Tanya Alekseyeva." The orderly grunted. "She's in room C."

"Thanks." Norman turned away.

"Hey." The orderly caught his arm. "They're not really telling us anything down here. Is the fighting...are we winning?"

Norman's grip on the helmet in his hand tightened. The orderly was searching his face, desperate for any hope. But Norman couldn't lie to him...couldn't bring himself to give him some false belief that the humans were beating the odds. But maybe... "We're spread thin." He said carefully. "And they're hitting us as hard as they can...but we're moving fast and hitting them hard. I got four in an ambush earlier."

Around him, a collective cheer. Even the surly orderly was grinning slightly. "Do we know anything about them yet?"

"They're called 'turians'." Norman told him. "They're led by someone called 'Desolas Arterius'...and they're fuck ugly."

This brought a burst of laughter from the orderlies and patients now clustered around them. A couple of bottles appeared out of nowhere, the orderly shoving a flask into his hand. "Well, I can't let you go back out there without a shot of Mulligan's best, now can I?"

The bottles were lifted, the liquor consumed, and Norman found himself walking toward the back of the bunker half believing in his own propaganda. Maybe a little false hope was good for the soul.

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"Ah, my gallant rescuer." Tanya sat up with difficulty as the man in battered body armour entered her little corner of the dark and smelly hole that she now found herself in. "Sergeant Alenko, am I right?"

"2nd Lieutenant, as of a few hours ago, ma'am." Alenko nodded. "Now in theoretical command of a theoretical platoon in this sector."

"And in reality?"

"Some militia fireteams that tagged on to my original brick." Alenko shrugged. "It could be worse. We've got companies trying to do the work of brigades up top."

"Not going so well then, I take it?"

"We started losing the second we ran out of air power." Alenko shook his head. "We made them bleed, but they've paid back a lot of their casualties in the last few hours. They wiped out most of 3/14 in the CBD, and First Militia's barely a shell of itself. We've lost contact with all our units in the other major cities. We're holding what's left of our armour in reserve, and our snipers are having a field day, but that's about the only thing we have left. The word's coming down that the General's thinking about ordering a full retreat."

Tanya looked away, her face dismayed. "You know...I always wanted to fight in a war. I thought it was a chance to prove myself, to prove my abilities. I had this mental picture of myself returning to my parents as a medalled hero, _da_? Instead, I'm crouched down here with a broken leg."

Alenko smiled bitterly. "Yeah, same here. Guess we always thought that if trouble ever came to us, we'd beat the hell out of it. We had the best guns, best gear, best tech."

"And now we find out that we're outnumbered and outclassed." Tanya agreed. "Even if we survive this...hell. Things will never be the same again. Not for us...not for humanity. This changes everything."

Alenko stared at the rifle in his arms. "The first war of humanity...not just between nations...between species. A first contact war."

"We discussed this issue back in officer school, when the Alliance first started recruiting." Tanya shared his despondency. "About the possibility of life outside our own sphere of knowledge. The Protheans had existed, why couldn't others exist as well? Hell, these could _be_ the Protheans, and we wouldn't have a clue. Why did they attack us? What was their reasoning? For resources? For slaves? Unless we know the why, we can't know how to stop them."

"We know how to stop them, alright." Norman indicated his rifle. "With bullets."

"Not what I mean." Tanya waved a hand. "To stop your foe, to truly win victory, you have to deny him his goal. If they're after resources, we have to structure ourselves to protect them. If they're after territory, we simply have to hold on until our reinforcements arrive. If they're after slaves...then I would ask you to put a bullet in my head before they take me."

Alenko looked at her in surprise. "You can't be serious."

"_Tovarisch_," Tanya growled. "We have seen what humanity has done to itself. Your American slavers buying Africans for gold. My Russian forebears shipping tens of thousands to the gulag. How much worse then can they be, those slavers with mass effect technology at their grip? I would rather die than live such a life."

Norman took her hand. "I don't believe that...I can't believe it. Humanity left our planet because we were ready for it, because our society had reached a point where we were motivated to strive for the stars. I have to believe that anyone else who felt like that, who saw the stars with the same longing that we did, has to have something that they share with us. A sense of wonder...of innocence, of exploration."

"Your belief is illogical." Tanya looked amused for a brief second. "They could be a conquering people. A tyrannical people. Monsters like Hitler and Stalin, oppressors and violators."

"Or maybe they're like us?" A new idea germinated in Norman's brain. "Maybe...maybe something happened up there, in space. Maybe this is all a mistake."

Tanya looked at him with pity. "I wish I could share your innocence, Lieutenant. But I can only say that they came bearing knives, not bread. We shall have to deal with them accordingly."

There was a shake in the very foundations of the bunker. Norman looked up. "Wait here."

He peered out into the main body of the bunker, eyes alighting on the door where three MPs with sidearms were taking up a defensive position. There was a flash of light, a loud noise, then the bunker door vaporised. A clatter of weapons fire sounded, the MPs firing their pistols blindly into the smoke. Several bursts of automatic fire rang back in reply, the humans dropping like stones. Norman's eyes widened with horror as armoured aliens swarmed in through the breach.

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Robert McDevitt was starting to lose track of the number of field promotions he had seen since the morning dawned on Shanxi. Some colonel had told him he was a Captain not half an hour earlier. Captain of what? His company had been practically extinguished over the two days of solid fighting. As a fighting force, 14th Recon Regiment had ceased to exist. Colonel Pressly had last been seen leading a mixed company against an enemy landing zone over on the west side of the city. A series of spectacular explosions from the enemy position had indicated his success, but no one had heard from him since.

He'd lost contact with Norman as well. After being made an acting platoon commander, Alenko had disappeared into the entertainment district with what men he could scavenge. The word had gone out to assess the civilian bunkers, and to be prepared to evacuate them on command. McDevitt had personally seen to the safety of three bunkers at the edge of the CBD, bringing their occupants back to the temporary head quarters at the underground mag-rail for evacuation.

Three trains had been sent on their way in the past hour, diversionary probes by increasingly sparse Marine and Militia forces drawing enemy efforts away from the entrances to the terminal. Approximately one hundred and eighty feet underneath the ground, the trains were apparently masked from detection, for now.

Right now, though, McDevitt was fighting mad. Even as he ran down the side of the platform, he was screaming at the operator of some mechanised loading equipment. "Shut it down! Shut it down!"

The operator, some bull necked MP with a squashed nose, stared down at him wearily. "What is it, mate?"

"Mate?" McDevitt angrily grabbed the MP and pulled him out of the seat. "Mate? I'll show you 'mate', you inbred Aussie..."

Faster than he had anticipated, McDevitt found himself surrounded by a dozen other MPs, each one larger than the one he had manhandled. Bob realised that amongst his moves, this might not have been the smartest.

"What's going on here?" Someone in rumpled fatigues pushed to the front of the MPs. McDevitt straightened up when he saw the black woven star on the front of the man's uniform.

"General Williams, sir." McDevitt nodded respectfully. "I requested armour support for my company more than half an hour ago. When it didn't arrive, I came back here to find out what had happened to it. Guess I found out."

The General's eyes strayed to the heavy crane lifting the last of the main battle tanks. The Odyssey-class behemoths had the firepower to turn entire firefights on their heads...which was why the turians were targeting them whenever they appeared.

"You have a question, Sergeant?"

"Captain, sir." McDevitt corrected him. "Sir, we need these tanks up top."

"No, son, we don't." Reaching out, Williams put a hand on his shoulder. "We are abandoning the city. All assets are pulling out, these tanks included."

McDevitt bowed his head. "Sir...we need more time to pull all the civilians out."

"You aren't reading me, Captain." Williams told him gently. "We are pulling out now. General evacuation has been sounded in all bunkers. The civilians that haven't left yet have an hour to pull back, along with our ground forces. It's three hours to the mountains by mag-rail. The trains can't make return trips. We need the lines clear to send out as many transports as we can. Those that can't evacuate will have to fight on in the city."

"Sir." McDevitt's voice cracked. "Have we lost?"

The officer didn't answer him immediately. "Have you got men on the surface?"

McDevitt knew what he was asking. The General didn't want to know about his company, he wanted to know about his friends. Barber, Hess...Norm. "A few, sir."

"Then get on the radio and call them in." Williams turned away. "Or we _will _leave without them."

McDevitt stared at the retreating figure of the General for a few seconds. Then he sprinted back down the platform, heading for the radio operator he had seen earlier.

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Lieutenant Adrien Victus advanced a few paces into the bunker. "Fan out, clear the area!"

His platoon poured inside, rifles raised as they checked the figures cowering on the floor.

Victus felt nothing but disgust as he examined the huddled aliens. These people weren't soldiers, they were unarmed and hiding. Skinny old ones, crying younglings. All staring up at him like he was some kind of monster, some vorcha from the Terminus. He wished he could explain the truth to them, that he was just here to do his job.

"Sir." Sergeant Debestek approached him. "There are more humans then we anticipated. We might not be able to convoy them out safely."

"Orders from Colonel Oraka are to assemble all human prisoners at the detention area at the stadium." Victus reminded him brusquely. "That means we escort everyone here out of the combat zone and back to the secured areas."

"Why aren't we just shipping them up into orbit?" Marksman T'rellius questioned as he prodded an unruly specimen with the barrel of his weapon. "If we were following procedure, they'd already be up on the Tyreaus."

"The Navy's been acting odd, from what I heard." Debestek answered. "Spirits, we still have casualty reports coming in from those bombardments. Eight platoons, from what I heard. The fire support officers didn't even call those strikes in."

"That's enough talk." Victus didn't approve of idle whispers in the ranks. "Marksman, take a look at the back of the bunker, see if there are any left.

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Alenko turned back to Tanya. "Aliens. Is there any way out of here?"

"None." Tanya reached for the squadron patch on her sleeve and tore it off. "Are they shooting?"

"Not anymore."

"That means they're not harming civilians." Tanya looked up at him grimly. "That either confirms my slave theory...or yours. Either way, we need to sneak out without drawing attention. Ditch your weapon, the uniform too."

Alenko stared down at her. "What am I supposed to wear?"

Tanya eyed him with brief amusement. "Figure something out."

Alenko caught her glance toward a stack of jumpsuits, emergency clothing for evacuees, and grimaced. He quickly placed his rifle underneath a crate of emergency rations, then began stripping out of his tattered fatigues. "You gotta be kidding me?"

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After a few brief words to his officer, Debestek stepped deeper into the bunker, efficiently clearing the corners as he looked for any strays that might be hiding out of the way. He had never seen fighting this heavy, let alone civilian casualties this severe. Reminded him of the batarian slave bunkers that the legion had dropped into less than a year ago. Even now, the sight and smell of blood and death made his plates shiver.

"This is no way to fight a war." Victus had approached his platoon sergeant from behind. "This is madness. General Arterius asks us for fire control references for high value targets, then Admiral Jhirx drops bombs on them from orbit without even telling the General."

Debestek remained quiet for a few seconds, allowing his officer to vent his doubts. "Sir...what are we even doing on this planet? Securing the peace? Punitive raid? Pre-emptive strike on a hostile race? The people in these bunkers aren't soldiers. They're not even trained. Apart from their soldiers, they're as weak as salarians. No civilian resistance, not even scorched soil tactics."

"I don't know anymore." Victus bent down, picking up a small, fluffy object...a child's toy. "They said to come here and fight an enemy, so I did. I thought it would be like fighting batarians. I didn't think..."

"We swore an oath to the Hierarchy." Debestek murmured. "Not to Jhirx or the General. This is...not honourable."

Victus shook himself out of his reverie. "Enough. We have a task to..."

His rifle came up as he heard a rustle in the darker corner.

A male and a female of the new species, both in ill fitting jumpsuits, appeared, their hands held high. The female was shrieking in a loud voice. Adrien's translator kicked in.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot. We surrender."

On reflex, his rifle tracked them for a few seconds. Slowly it came back down, the turian frowning at his own jumpiness. "Come on out!"

Debestek gave him a glance. "Sir, we should continue this conversation later."

Victus turned away. Such talk was mutinous...treasonous at worse...but still just talk.

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Barber passed Hess the marksman's rifle. "Yep, Norm's down there. Dork in the jumpsuit next to the hottie in the jumpsuit."

"_Ja_, I see them." Hess frowned. "This will be messy. Civilians thick on the ground, bad guys marching them out. Can't get a clear shot..."

He looked back at Barber. "Perhaps...if you staged a distraction...we could allow him a chance to slip away?"

"Yep, I got this." The blonde gunner hefted her machine gun as she stood up.

"Wait, what are you doing...? Stop!" Hess tried to grab her as Barber pointed her weapon at the sky and fired off a burst.

"Hey! Fuckheads!" Barber screamed down at the aliens on the street. The turians looked up at the parking lot. She fired off another few bursts. "KAITLYYYYYYYN! BAAAAAAAAAAAAARBER!"

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Down on the street, Norman felt his heart sink. "That idiot...she's going to make them run right in."

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Up in the building, Hess frantically seized Barber and dragged her away from the edge as the turians shot up. "You moron! They're going to run right in!"

"At least I'm not chicken!" Barber spat back as they ran for the stairs. "Shut up and run!"

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"Spirits damn them." Victus snarled as he returned fire at the snipers in the building. "Take cover, secure the prisoners."

"Sir!" Debestek yelled over the gunfire. "The detainees!"

Whirling around, Victus saw the humans bolting in every direction, into alleys and sidestreets.

"Should we open fire?" Another NCO yelled.

"What?" Victus turned on him. "No! Hold fire! Hold fire!"

As the street cleared of humans, a vehicle appeared. The turret opened up on the turian platoon, forcing them into cover as their prisoners fled.

"Well..." Debestek slid into cover next to the platoon commander. "That escalated quickly."

"Return fire." Victus ordered curtly. "I'm starting to hate this planet."

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"Good to see you, sir." Hess passed Norman a rifle as they fled down the street. "You had us worried for a minute."

"Glad to see you two can come up with a reasonably insane plan on the fly." Norman replied dryly. "You two remember the Major?"

"Need a hand, ma'am?" Barber offered her shoulder to a grateful officer.

"Thank you, my leg is...not the best." Tanya grimaced. "Where to now?"

"Ah...we've got a little problem, Norm." Hess glanced back at the rest of the mixed fireteams following them. "We got a radio message from Bob...Captain McDevitt a little while ago. General Williams has ordered a full retreat. Anyone who couldn't get to the mag-rail stations within an hour was ordered to fight on for as long as possible in the city."

Norman halted in his tracks. "When was the order given?"

Hess checked his watch. "About half an hour ago?"

Norman did the maths in his head. "It's four clicks to the mag-rail station across a war zone...we'll never make it."

"Yeah..." Barber shrugged. "We kinda figured that."

Norman looked at both of them before exploding. "Then why didn't you go when the order came in? You could have made it."

"With all due respect, Boss." Barber adjusted her machine gun slightly. "Ain't no fucking way we were leaving without you. One-Fourteen mongrels don't quit, oo'rah."

"Well, you're all morons." Norman shook his head.

"Love ya too, Norm." Barber winked at him before turning to cover her arc. "What's the plan?"

"We need to find a place to rally up, establish comms with other units." Norman looked around. "Anyone have a lay-up point we can use?"

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Hess nodded. "Ex-girlfriend's flat, less than a click. I still got the key."

"Middle of the war and he's worried about breaking down a door." Tanya's laughed humourlessly.

"Can we get word back to Bob?"

"Negative." Hess indicated his radio. "Comms have been down for twenty minutes. Only the high powered sets can break through the jamming."

"This day just keeps getting better and better." Norman grunted before a shrill voice and a burst of gunfire grabbed his attention.

"Contact rear! Contact rear!"

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"McDevitt!" Shepard grabbed the younger officer's shoulder as he walked past him. "Where the hell's your squad?"

McDevitt stared back at him, the man's eyes dulled. "Missing...dead...I don't know. Lost all contact."

The reprimand died on Mack's lips. "Damn."

"Yeah." McDevitt looked away. "He's a good fighter...good leader. He'll be alright...he has to be. He's got a kid, sir."

"So do I, Marine." Mack indicated the troops around them. "So do a shitload of these men. The only way any of us is getting back to them is if we do our jobs. You read me?"

McDevitt looked back up at him, acceptance in his eyes. "Five by five, sir."

Harper appeared at Shepard's side as McDevitt moved away. "Mack Shepard, always with a kind word for children and Marines."

"Jack Harper. Asshole." Shepard shot back as he turned toward his friend. "Where the hell have you been?"

Harper jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Decided to do a little prisoner taking before we had to scuttle. Picked up some stragglers, a few of their wounded. Should make for some good interrogation tapes when we get to the mountains."

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"Are you sure you've got everything you need?" Williams pressed Ceris as she walked with him down the platform.

"All the recordings and pictures you allowed me to take, along with my own interviews." Ceris rattled off her checklist as they went. "I'll turn myself in to the turians, say that I was hiding in the sewers after the 'humans' shot me down. They'll likely put me on the first shuttle back to the Citadel."

"I'm counting on you." Williams told her. "When you said you could make this 'Council' listen, I believed you. Just make them see reason, call a ceasefire. Stop the killing."

"Trust me, I've got an in with the Council." Ceris reassured him. "A favour I've been saving up for a few hundred years."

Williams came to a halt at one of the carriages. "Miss Feon...you've told me a lot that is helpful. Turian strategy, their politics. About the Citadel and the Council. And if you can really stop this war, I would be eternally grateful. There's still the off-chance that you're just an elaborately planted spy...but if you're not, then I'd just like to say...thank you."

"General...that's not necessary..."

"Please." Williams held up a hand. "You didn't have a reason to help us, but you did. It was...a brave action."

"General...the Citadel races...even the turians, shouldn't be the impression of us that you take away from this conflict." Ceris struggled to find the right words. "In some ways we are very much like you. I very much hope you live to see that."

A gentle smile broke on the human's face. Leaning forward, he lightly hugged the momentarily startled asari. "You can call me Joe."

Pausing for a second, Ceris returned his embrace. "Ceris. I will see you when all of this is over."

"Agreed." Williams stepped back, allowing two troopers with a turian on a stretcher to pass by. "You should sample some proper human cuisine on Earth. My treat."

"I'll hold you to that." Ceris stepped back as humans flooded past her, discipline breaking down as the civilians, soldiers and Marines alike rushed to get on the last transport. Soon, Ceris found herself standing on the platform, completely alone aside from Baya and a few humans who had volunteered to remain behind. "May the Goddess be with you, Joaquim Williams."

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Lacriss Vakarian woke up. Her head was pounding, and her bones felt like they were shattered in a dozen places. The last thing she remembered was the ambush, the trap...she opened her eyes and saw the pale pink faces of her captors.

Lacriss Vakarian knew she was in trouble.

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**A/N: I know I produce shockingly little work for the amount of time it takes me to update these stories. I sometimes envy Full-Paragon for his ability to churn out large chunks of cohesive storyline per week, but I can but do what I do. I have been feeling more inventive lately, at least. Though part of that is due to the excessive amounts of First Contact fics I've been seeing lately that are either pure human-wank or pure turian-wank. My goal when starting this fic was not to cheer for humans or cheer for turians, but to write an interesting, cohesive, and realistic story. I hope I've managed to do that so far.**


	23. The Politics of War

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty Three: The Politics of War

I don't own BioWare

"_When you think about it, we dodged a bullet that day. Like any political system (even one that had not yet separated into formal parties) you had two opposing groups, the ones for and the ones against. Not that this was a conservative/liberal thing, mind you. Social issues were handled on a colony by colony basis back then, still are to a degree. But at this particular point in history, you had the ones who wanted to relieve Shanxi with a fleet, and the ones that wanted to send a peace envoy. Had Costa won over Shastri that day...well, we'd probably still have a turian 'advisor' sitting in on our Parliament."-Representative Charles Saracino, Terra Firma. (Interview with Emily Wong, Citadel News Net, 2184.)_

"_Humans are curious in their selection of politicians. You have history of establishing solid, hard-working social orders, endowed with sensible laws and admirable (if excessively libertarian) standards of ethics. Then you elect leaders who act as if they have no higher goal than the utter destruction of that society. There are approximately fourteen leaders in Earth's modern history who would not have lived to see the end of their elected term on Palaven."-Senator Martius Fedorian, Kala Province, Palaven. (Chapter XI: The Greater Disparities, from 'Unlikely Friends: The Inevitability of a Turian/Human Alliance'.)_

**ARCTURUS STATION**

**PARLIAMENT CHAMBERS**

**SEVEN DAYS BEFORE THE RELIEF OF SHANXI**

Grissom rose as the side door opened. "Amul?"

"Jon." The young Indian man extended his hand to take the Admiral's as they met. "It is good to see you."

"Likewise." The Admiral nodded. "Any word?"

"I presented the initial briefing about an hour ago." Representative Amul Shastri informed him. "The Speaker and Prime Minister both ratified it and have called for a vote. Trouble is..."

"Trouble?" Grissom raised an eyebrow. "It's a request to authorise the immediate mobilisation and deployment of all Alliance combat units to relieve Shanxi."

"And yet..." Amul interrupted him. "Some believe it is an unnecessary declaration of war. Certain members are requesting that we instead dispatch an unarmed peace envoy."

"You're...you're not serious." Grissom looked past him. "Who would be demanding...Costa?"

"She's never been enthusiastic about Alliance armament." Shastri pointed out.

"Yes, which we all agreed was absolute bollocks." Grissom countered.

"Yes, you and Kastanie got your way, but Jenny came out of it looking like the good guy." The young politician explained. "She's been building a power base in Parliament for months. She's going to run for Prime Minister...we talked about this months ago!"

Grissom turned his back on the other man. "How strong is her party?"

"They control a little over a third." Shastri folded his arms. "Remember, the Alliance works on a strict system of contribution. India, Russia, the PRC and the Americans all got four seats each. Australia, the UK, the rest of the smaller major powers got three. Iran, Pakistan, Israel, they got two each, and everyone else got one. Costa's been targeting the single seats, the weaker members, the ones that are afraid of Alliance military power. And if you don't go in there and convince them you're not the rapacious imperialist she's been drawing you as since the Armaments Talks, then the Parliament won't vote to send so much as a garbage scow to Shanxi."

"They'll send a damn convoy of politicians while Shanxi burns." Grissom clenched his left fist instinctively. "Damned if I'll let that happen."

He started toward the door. Shastri blocked him. "Jon, be very careful about what you're going to say."

"I have men in harm's way. I have the Second Fleet preparing a relief effort." Grissom's stare could melt a bulkhead. "And I have to wait to get _their_ approval? When have any of those bastards had to fight for their life? Had friends in danger?"

"They're on your side, Jon." Shastri tried to calm the irate sailor down. "Your briefing was thorough. You've convinced them that we need to put men on the line to resolve this as fast as we can. Just go out there and expose Costa's grandstanding for what it is. Don't _threaten_ them. Above all, don't imply you're going to _mutiny_ if they shut you down."

"The Commander-in-Chief..."

"Fleet Admiral Goldstraw can override the Commander-in-Chief if Parliament votes against her." Shastri reasoned. "Jon. If you don't handle this right, both you and the CINC could wind up dimissed. You've always been a diplomat amongst the fighter jockeys. Just...keep your peace."

Grissom swallowed. "I can keep my temper, Amul. But when this is over, we're going to have some discussion over the relationship between Parliament and the Fleet."

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"He's coming out." An aide whispered as he passed Representative Costa a glass of water. "It should be an easy fight, ma'am. Apparently Shastri had to calm him down before he broke down the door."

Jennifer Costa nodded quietly as she took a sip. "I never expected a challenge. Jon may fancy himself a peacemaker, but he's as much of a barbarian as Kastanie...or Madalena..."

Her aide nodded in agreement. Jennifer Costa had been up and down as a politician, but her capacity for debate had ensured her a prominent spot in the limelight. A simpleton like Grissom would be no match in a pitched argument such as this.

Costa had been elected to the UNAS Congress as an independent, running for 'Peace, Stability, Safety'. She'd thrown her weight behind significant peace initiatives in the Middle East and in the South Pacific, voted favourably on UNAS colonialism, and had initiated key legislation on the regulation of Element Zero. This had been enough to secure her one of the four UNAS seats in the Alliance Parliament. From there, she had set about collecting support.

She had rallied allies from the very countries she had once supported. Her focus was a two year long assault on the Alliance Naval Construction Program, drawing Fleet Admiral Goldstraw and Admiral Grissom into lengthy debates on the merits of such a rapid expansion of a colonial military force. Grissom had won by virtue of his reputation and sheer force of personality, but Costa had acquired political capital, capital which she would today spend.

The Prime Minister and Speaker both stood up as the main doors opened. Costa privately rolled her eyes. There was no question of Grissom's merits as an explorer and a visionary in his youth. Sadly, all the fire and hope that had inspired a new generation of humanity had been wasted, turned into bitter and cynical militarism. She would honour the man that Grissom had once been by ending this ridiculous war. Jennifer Costa would be remembered as a peacemaker for humanity, while Grissom would fade away into irrelevancy.

Grissom slowly ascended the stand, gazing around the room packed with the representatives from the various nation states and colonies of humanity. Nodding, he cleared his throat gruffly. "Honourable Members of the Parliament, I come before you today with a most grievous matter. Our forces on the colony of Shanxi have come under sudden and overwhelming attack from an alien force. By all reports, General Williams is fighting with all necessary vigor, but he has but a single division and few ships to support his defence. I come before you to ask that you immediately ratify the measures put before you. Allow me to dispatch the Second Fleet to relieve Shanxi, and to assemble an army capable of supporting our Marines."

Shastri stood up. "As the senior representative of the Republic of India, I am honoured to be the first to propose the motion designated as Military Proposal Thirteen."

Another delegate stood up, Grissom recognised him as one of the French delegates. "I second the motion."

The Speaker stood up. "With the motion seconded, I call for a vote. Unless there are any in dissent?"

For a moment there was silence...and Grissom dared hope for the best. But then, as expected, Costa's voice rang through the main chamber. Standing, Costa raised her hand. "As an independent representative, I would like to call for a period of debate before the vote."

The Speaker looked disturbed. "Is that really necessary? I believe that we are all in favour of the measure here."

"Really?" Costa smiled. It was yet another thing Grissom disliked about her. Grissom never smiled himself. He did not believe in smiling when you did not mean it. A smile was a sign of approval, of affection, of respect. He had smiled only a few times in his life. At the grew of the _Phoenix_ when they went through the relay. At his wife at their wedding, and when Kahlee was born. And when Kahlee got her first doctorate. Costa would smile and it never reached her eyes. She cheapened something important by her use of it. "I for one am very much opposed...and I am not alone."

A murmur went up in the rear benches of the parliament. Grissom uncomfortably folded his arms behind his back. "Debate can wait, Representative. I am aware we have had our differences, but this is different. Men are dying while we talk."

"Ah yes...and you would raise an army to rescue them." Costa's voice dripped condescension. "I was under the impression, Admiral Grissom, that the Charon Accords expressly forbade the Alliance to form a standing army, and called on its armed forces to be peacekeepers and peacemakers."

"That was a decision made when we believed we were the only remaining life in the galaxy." Grissom shot back.

"Yes...and now we find out that we are not." Costa began to descend into the main central area, right underneath Grissom's grandstand. Dramatic, but then Costa was ever the subtle actor. Grissom understood this. Understood that at every turn of speech Costa outmatched him. In voice and wit she was his direct superior. "Am I the only won that finds the joy in this occasion?"

"I find it very hard to be joyful when my soldiers are under siege." Grissom's tone was flat. He would not be drawn into Costa's games. "You said you wished to debate. Either debate or let the vote continue."

Costa advanced a few more steps. She dropped her voice low, low enough that only he could hear her. "Please understand, Jon. This is nothing personal."

Turning around, Costa addressed the entire chamber. "I call for immediate vote on a new measure, one which we have entitled 'the Peace Act'. The Peace Act calls for an immediate withdrawing of all military forces to our borders, in order to defend territory not currently under assault. It likewise makes provision for the creation of a special diplomatic envoy to travel to Shanxi unarmed and without hostility in order to sue for peace with these new aliens."

"With you leading it I suppose?" Grissom's sarcasm was underdone, but more effective for it.

"Someone better? You, Admiral Grissom? Peacemakers must handle this, not warfighters."

"Ma'am, there is nothing I would like better than peace. But we can't have peace unless we fight for it."

"An oxymoronic expression if ever there was one."

"Perhaps." Grissom looked up. "But I urge the chamber to remember this. We know nothing about this new species. We do no not know their language, their culture or their customs. Any peace envoy we send might very well be wiped out before they can initiate negotiations. And then we would be doubly helpless, with any relief being almost impossible."

"Perhaps. Or maybe we'll prevent a war." Costa looked back up at the chamber. "You know, when I was a little girl, I had a dream. I'm sure many of you did. We looked up at the stars and hoped to find life up there. Intelligent life. New civilizations to greet and learn from. This is our chance. A chance to throw the dice for peace. Imagine everything that we could accomplish."

The Parliament was stirring uneasily. Costa's words were making them dream along with her. But Grissom wasn't a dreamer, he never had been. He was a thinker.

"Pipe dreams." His voice was harsh and sharp. "You want to gamble the lives of every man and woman on Shanxi for your ideals. We've been down this road before. Munich, Potsdam, the Afghanistan Neutral Zone. Since time immemorial, humanity has hoped for the best from our own species, but we've thrown too many good people under the wheels for us to believe that any more. Members of the Parliament, now is not a time for dreams. Later, I would beg you. Let the peace envoys come later, when our men and women are no longer dying, and our colonists are out of danger. When we have taken back our territory, let us sue for all possible peace, but not while the people we are responsible for are in peril."

He knew he had them in that moment. They were politicians. Many politicians cared about ideals, more cared about votes. Grissom had shaped his argument well, guiding his talk back to the people on Shanxi. Suggestion was something he'd long since mastered. He hadn't even needed to bring it directly to their attention, he'd let them think it for themselves: what would happen if they were wrong? What if they let the people on Shanxi suffered to advance themselves? It was political suicide.

Shastri stood up. "I call for a vote."

Another stood up, the member from Timor-Leste. "I second the motion."

The procedure would have rumbled on, but for Costa. She cleared her throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Speaker. I believe that I have the right to continue the debate?"

There was silence. The Speaker looked a little awkward. "Yes, I believe that is permitted. But be brief, Representative, this vote is quite urgent."

Costa began to speak. She spoke quietly at first, some monologue about her childhood, more drivel about dreams of peace. Grissom barely noticed the content, he only noticed the time Costa was using up. He edged closer to Shastri. "What the hell is she doing?"

"I can't believe it." Amul looked slightly stunned. "It's...a filibuster..."

Grissom turned to him. For the first time since Amul had known the man, there was naked rage on his face. "You mean she can prevent the entire fleet from mobilising...just because he whines?"

"John...the democratic process is very clear." Amul wrung his hands. "As long as she keeps the floor opened for debate...the vote can't take place. It's a political safeguard that's been in place for centuries..."

"There are people dying!" Grissom snarled, his temper finally gone. "Soldiers, civilians...hell, kids still tucked up inside their mama's bellies. And she gets to hold it up because she's a sore loser?"

"It's not just that, Jon. She has friends in the parliament and outside it. Every second she delays, she rallies more support. She could keep this up until the session is ended. And the next session, and the next one. She can eat away at our support..." Suddenly Amul's attention was drawn elsewhere. "What the hell...?"

There was a disturbance from the side of the chamber. From out of the shadows stepped another figure. Uniformed, like the rest of the officer's observing the chamber, though the colours were different. Rather than the blue on black of the Navy, or the dark green of the Marines, the new figure wore a snow white tunic with green facings. It was a woman, a woman with a cracked and weathered brown face, with grey hair losing its battle with white streaks, and with a circlet of five golden stars decorating each of her epaulettes.

Her chestboard was as tall as it was wide, festooned with a cacophony of colours. Low prestige Alliance medals...the Distinguished Service Medal, the Arcturus Cluster for Outstanding Leadership...and then there were the older ones. UNAS and USA awards. Bronze Star with combat V, Silver Star, Navy Cross, four Purple Hearts, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, both US and UNAS variants...and the Medal of Honour...both US and UNAS variants.

She drew every eye in the room. Every Representative knew her. Every Representative feared her. Few had ever met her. None had ever seen her in attendance at an Assembly of Parliament. The Commandant of the Systems Alliance Marine Corps...and the Commander-in-Chief of the Systems Alliance Armed Services did not usually show her face to anyone whose power was transient...such as a politician.

Costa was the first to shake herself out of shock. "Madame Commandant, it is an honour to have you present for this..."

Costa was a tall woman, six foot one inch exactly. But when the elderly woman approaching her straightened her back she stood a good three inches above the politician. Costa had good control of her emotional responses...but she didn't spot the glint in the old brown eyes before it was too late. Costa was enthusiastic about fitness...but on her best day she could have never summoned the lightning fast right hook that the woman in white snapped into her jaw.

Costa fell like a sack of potatoes. The old woman dispassionately considered the unconscious woman in the expensive grey suit in front of her...and then shrugged. "I believe that closes debate for the evening."

Turning on her heel, the Commandant departed in the direction she had come from. The chamber was still deathly quiet as she exited.

"Jon..." Amul leaned closer, looking almost giddy with contained glee. "What did I just see?"

Grissom swallowed. "You just saw Commandant Madalena Williams knock out Jenny Costa with one punch."

"...can she do that?"

"Well...we could always order the security detail to arrest her for assault." Grissom looked at him. "Would you like to tell them?"

Shastri looked back. "I would like to get this vote over with before Commandant Williams decides to launch a military coup to relieve her son."

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Drescher gave an inward sigh of relief as the data flashed over the viewscreen. "The vote was taken. Almost unanimous in favour of relief, aside from one abstention. Seems Rep. Costa decided to sit it out."

There was a chuckle around the command centre of the McKinley. Drescher stood up, advancing toward the galaxy map that dominated the centre of her CIC. "Open a channel to the rest of the fleet."

"Channel open." Her comms officer reported.

Drescher adjusted her uniform cap. "Captains, officers and rates of Second Fleet. As of this moment, we are at war."

She allowed her words to sink in, then continued with her orders. "The Second has been ordered to travel post haste to Shanxi to relieve General Williams and the Third Division. We do the same thing that we have always done. We jump in, neutralise the threat, then drink everything the groundpounders have available. Drescher, out."

She turned away. Captain Crawley suppressed a grin. "Wonderful speech, ma'am. Good and short."

"I don't propose to make speeches while Shanxi burns." Drescher took her seat. "Lay in a course to the Fisherman's Relay. Maximum speed."

"Aye, ma'am." Crawley wheeled around. "Navigator, plot course and relay to Fleet Operations. Slave VIs to McKinley for jump. All hands, prepare for jump!"

Slowly, the horde of ships began to move. Hundreds of fighters, dozens of frigates and cruisers. And at the centre of the formation, the McKinley. Assembling into loose formation, Second Fleet's engines glowed white hot. Space warped, light flashed, and then all was still as Second Fleet accelerated into FTL.

The relief was on its way.

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**A/N: Madalena Williams. A character I've had in concept stage for almost as long as I've been writing on this site. Let's just say that we're going to be seeing a lot more of her in future stories. **


	24. Those Left Behind

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty Four: Those Left Behind

I don't own BioWare

**OUTREACH CITY**

**SHANXI**

**LANDING ZONE 13**

Lieutenant Corinthus was doing a very poor job of concealing his rage. "All right, Private. Explain to me again exactly how a long range scout fighter goes missing from a heavily guarded landing zone."

The private in question was looking as miserable as a turian could look. "I swear, sir, I don't know."

Corinthus counted a decad before he let loose the full weight of his fury. "Do you know how many credits that fighter cost, Private?"

He didn't give him time to answer. "It cost ten million credits, Private. It was a next-generation, cutting edge reconnaissance suite with advanced stealth features. Now, I landed this ten million credit fighter here not half an hour ago for fuel, so that I may continue scouting out enemy positions on this planet. Enemy positions, Private, that you will soon find yourself assaulting single-handed, if you don't tell me this instant where I may find my Spirits-damned ship!"

"Sir, it was right there not half a refuelling cycle past." The private gestured wildly. "I turned my back for a few seconds to change over the pumps and the next thing I knew, it was gone."

"How?" Corinthus snarled. "Did anyone come near it?"

"No, sir."

"Did it fly off by itself?"

"Maybe..." The private looked around fearfully. "This is a strange new species, sir. Perhaps they have the power to control ships from afar? Or turn themselves invisible?"

Corinthus stared at the superstitious soldier. "Private." He said the word quietly.

"Yes, sir?"

"You have half an hour to find that fighter, Private."

"Yes, sir."

"And Private?"

"Yes, sir?"

"If you haven't found that fighter in half an hour, I advise you to get your rifle and report to the vanguard. Or else I'll have you hung as an example to the rest of you rear rank scum."

The officer stalked off, leaving the guard staring blankly at the empty spot where the stealth fighter used to sit. He could not understand how his charge had disappeared. No one had been disturbed, no one alerted. So how had the ship disappeared right from under his nose? Nervously glancing around, he grabbed his rifle from a rack and pulled on his combat harness over his armour. Better to fight and chance death in the vanguard than be hung for incompetence in a landing zone.

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Ceris checked her scanners again as their stolen fighter passed through the sparse cordon currently blockading the planet. "Where are the ships?"

Baya glanced back from the front seat of the stealth fighter they had hijacked back on the planet. "All around us."

"No, not that." Ceris replied impatiently. "I mean the heavy ships. Dreadnaughts, cruisers the rest of the fleet. I count eleven or twelve cruisers besides the dreadnaught, along with heavy landing ships and smaller craft. The rest of the Far Watching Fleet is gone."

"We can thank the Maker for that." Baya growled. "After all the damned bad luck we've had lately, we're owed a break."

"Yes...but look." Ceris gestured at the planet. Near a dozen cruisers moved slowly through low orbit. From time to time, their batteries flared as they poured down fire on some target on the planet's surface. "This is not war. This is mad carnage. The turians think they are attacking the homeworld of an enemy, the humans believe they are holding for reinforcements. They will wipe each other out."

"Yes, and we have a plan. Go back to the Citadel, show them our evidence and arrange for peacekeepers to be sent out here." Baya readjusted the controls as they cruised past a drifting corvette. "And somehow try to avoid being charged for theft of turian military property."

"We'll give it back to them once we return." Ceris promised. Stealing the ship had seemed a better idea than surrendering as they drew closer with the turian battle lines. And finding a shiny new stealth fighter with FTL capabilities was just too sweet an opportunity for an old STG hand like Baya to pass up.

And they'd be coming back with a hell of a lot more than peacekeepers, Ceris promised herself. Whilst the humans hadn't been gentle with her, they had treated her honourably. She would see that honour returned. If this was the work of a few renegade commanders, all well and good. If it was the work of the Hierarchy itself...well...the galaxy hadn't had a proper war in quite some time.

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Norman counted his blessings as the door to the apartment clicked open. There hadn't been much time to evacuate everyone, and even those that had been evacuated had been those fast enough to get out the door and onto the mag-rails with what few possessions they could carry by hand.

The under-strength platoon filed silently into the apartment. Alenko wordlessly gestured Bates and Silva toward the stairs, the two ascended to the next level to continue the search for survivors. He'd left Barber downstairs with Walsh, the two had set up a fire lane in one of the corridors, to provide early warning if the aliens closed in.

Satisfied that his position was as secure as he could make it, Alenko stepped inside the apartment and closed the door.

Hess was already moving window to window, staying low as he drew the curtains shut. Two or three others were quietly and efficiently stripping food and drink from the well-stocked kitchen. Norman would have lectured them on looting if he hadn't been too hungry to care. Ravenous, he stuffed some cold meat and a few slices of bread together and ate half of it with a single bite.

Beside him, Tanya likewise stuffed her face with anything she could get her hands on. The colour had been somewhat restored to her face, though Norman could tell that her still healing leg was taking its toll on her.

"Norm..." Hess spoke softly as he moved over to his platoon lead. "We shouldn't stay here. Fucking grasshoppers are flooding the city. Won't be long before they find us."

"We can't move yet." Norman shook his head. "Not until we get some rest. Look at you, you're dead on your feet."

Hess narrowed his eyes. "We're trained to fight under sleep deprivation."

"Not indefinitely." Norman's voice was harder in his reply. "I've made my decision, stop wasting time and follow your orders. You're platoon sergeant, now. Stand down everyone but the six sentries, half hour watches. We move out in six hours, not before."

Hess opened his mouth to argue, then shut it just as quickly. "Aye...sir."

As he moved away, Norman felt Tanya's hand on his shoulder. She looked pained, but approving. "You made the right call. I don't think your men have much left in them."

"They've been fighting for days on a few hours sleep and maybe half an MRE each." Norman said. "None of us is going to last much longer without some real food."

"There's not much in this kitchen but a bit of fruit and bread." Tanya glanced around. "They can't fight on that. Can we scavenge more."

"Doubtful." Norman indicated a small box on the side of the wall. "Emergency power box for the cooler. Not many have them. The rest of the food in the other flats is probably rotten by now."

"What then?"

"We need to find somewhere with tinned food, non-perishable stuff." Norman pulled his pad from an admin pouch on the front of his plate carrier. Thumbing the activation switch, he brought up his area map.

"What are you looking for?"

"They made these tac maps less than a year ago." Norman frowned as he scrolled through the streets. "If I'm lucky, I'll be able to spot a supermarket, or convenience store. Something with a stock area we can forage."

Tanya eyed him with bemusement. "Why not just bring up a local street directory and tap in your search parameters."

Norman was quiet for a second. Then he flicked over to the closed network search and tapped in his request. A few seconds later and he had made his selections. "There's a ColMark three blocks to the east, opposite to where we came in."

"That's further away from their AO." Tanya noted. "Less likely to encounter one of their patrols."

"Agreed." Flicking off his pad, Norman stowed it away, then retrieved his rifle from the bench. "I need a foraging party! Four bodies and an LSW."

"I'll come." Tanya interjected.

"That's a negative, ma'am. Not on that leg."

"The calcium bonds took care of the break, Lieutenant. The cast is for show."

"And I'm telling you that I'm not taking a compromised pilot back into those streets."

"This compromised pilot is more awake than most of your Marines, Lieutenant." There was an iron glint in Tanya's eyes. "Your men crave sleep more than food. You can either take a limping pilot, or a sleeping rifleman. What's your choice?"

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If there was one thing Norman Alenko needed to learn, it was how to say no to redheads.

Byron was working on the lock of the stock area, as the rest of the makeshift squad scanned the area around the back entrance. Toward the west, Alenko could still here the sound of booming heavy weapons, the high pitched crack of assault rifles, and the constant chatter of machine guns. Every now and again, another squadron of enemy bombers would do a flyover, or another tall building would collapse, or another shell from the cruiser in orbit would level an entire block.

"Look at this place." Tanya murmured next to him as they watched the skyline burn. "It was meant to be the crowning glory of a new colony. An entire city, prefabricated and sited. Meant to house over thirty million colonists in the next ten years alone. All those people back on Earth, waiting for their colonial visas to mature. Now what will they do?"

"At least they're back on Earth." Norman grimaced. "Civilian casualties were climbing every second, last time I was in the command centre."

"How bad...?"

"Do the math." The Marine closed his eyes. "One million first wave colonists on planet. A few hundred thousand in the cities, a few hundred thousand more on the farms and agrarian communities. A few hundred thousand builders and artificers. Our entire colonial workforce and their families. We built the emergency bunkers in the mountains to house as many as we could...but they're not finished yet."

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"How many?" Williams calmly sipped his coffee as he waited for the bad news.

"Combat effective?" Gurung stood next to him as the force lists rolled. "Less than two thousand infantry so far, though we've got stragglers coming in. Mostly leaderless. It appears the turians are trained to spot authority figures, officers, NCOs and the like."

"The picture?"

"We have very few platoon commanders, barely a handful of experienced company commanders, and I haven't been able to raise a single battalion commander on any of the channels." Gurung looked as sick as Williams felt. They had known most of the division's officers by name and face, and had mentored more than a few. Joachim knew their spouses and children back on Earth and Arcturus, had been keeping an eye out for their careers. And now most of them were dead. Dozens of promising young officers, all their potential snuffed out.

"Pressly?"

"Last comm link had him somewhere in the north of the city, moving fast with what light armour he could scavenge. Word from survivors is that he intended to lead a breakout, but an orbital strike halted his advance." Gurung lowered his eyes. "He's MIA, along with most of his command team. Fourteenth Recon is now combat ineffective."

In his head, Williams wanted to insist that nothing could kill Pressly, that the old man was too tough, too stubborn to just give up and die. But an orbital strike...

"What about the rest of our men in the city?" He forced his voice to stay even.

"Estimates range from one to three thousand scattered regulars and militia. No leadership above section level." Gurung hesitated. "Sir..."

"Out with it."

"Sir, headcounts are in. Whilst we all believed that evacuation orders had been carried out to the letter, it seems that our initial estimates were wrong by a drastic margin. Less than three hundred thousand civilians have made it to the bunkers. The rest we believe decided to take shelter in the Shatterstone Valley, the Western Forestlands, and a dozen other separate holdfasts. At least two hundred thousand were trapped in the other cities."

It was a blow Williams had been preparing for. "How many did we leave in Outreach?"

"Whilst we were more successful...there's still at least twenty thousand civilians still stuck in bunkers...and the ones who never got out."

"Death toll?"

"We've been encouraged by a low confirmed count."

"Ganju..."

"Joe..." The Gurkha looked away. "Some of those shells fell in densely populated zones. It could be anything from ten to fifty thousand. Bunker networks collapsed, buildings fell, fires raked suburban areas. We have no way of knowing what's happening, or how many are dead."

"Then we'll have to work on that." The general's jawline hardened. Ganju looked, and saw a spark of iron in his eyes, and felt his own spirits buck up. "We, at least, are not dead yet. And as long as that fact remains true, we will continue to fight. You said we had infantry?"

"Yes sir. Two thousand."

"What about tanks, light armour?"

"Fifty fully functional MBTs, sir. But only the crew for thirty. As for light armour, we have light assault vehicles, armoured personnel carriers and the like. The problem is crew, fuel and ammo."

"Ganju." Joachim placed his hand on his Chief of Staff's shoulder. "I don't care how you have to do it, but I want every vehicle we have crewed and equipped for combat by tomorrow. Scrounge up first line ammunition if you can, distribute what there is if you can't. I want one squadron of heavy armour, and another of light to act as cavalry and screening."

"Combine them with our infantry and you get a reinforced Brigade Combat Team." Ganju could see the logic in immediate consolidation. It was useless to pretend that they were fighting as a complete division anymore, by hardening and networking the remaining units, they maintained what combat effectiveness they could. "You'll need a commander, and we're short on good colonels. If I may, there are a few good majors who would be up for the challenge..."

"I have a commander already." Williams smiled. "I'm promoting you to full colonel, effective immediately."

Ganju opened his mouth, preparing to say a dozen different things. That he wasn't ready, didn't have the experience, that his last command had been a rifle regiment, without any armour attached. In the end, he could only say one thing. "Sir. That seems the wisest course of action."

Williams nodded, turning back toward the screen. "Ganju, I made a mistake in trying to hold Outreach. And it's cost me more than half of my command, all of my air cover, and the initiative of defence. I should have taken everything I had and consolidated these mountains while I had the chance."

Ganju knew as much, had suggested as much the second the Rubicon Contingency had been declared. "Yes sir."

"Well, I may not be the most brilliant of generals, but I'm not stupid." Williams turned back to him. "I know logistics, know them better than most people. But I also know strategy, and this is a position that is completely untenable. I'm up against an enemy with orbital support, and corps strength on the ground, if not a full army. Against that, I have one BCT without any meaningful air support. A holding action is no longer feasible. Evacuation is the only chance these people have."

"Sir, we have no more ships."

"Not entirely true, Colonel." Williams tapped in a command. A new image appeared on screen, it was a hangar, a large one. Sixteen transports of varying sizes occupied it. "We have the settlement fleet."

Ganju sucked in his breath. Settlement fleets were magnificent feats of engineering. Designed to carry gargantuan loads of colonists and cargo across the vast emptiness of space, then deposit themselves on a planet, and be stripped down to their bones for resources. "Sir, the settlement fleet was only ever meant to be a one way ride. Most of those ships are missing hull plates, nav systems, hell, we even lifted an eezo core to provide power to the city until we set up the permanent plant."

"But colonial protocol maintains that they be kept ready for service, in an emergency." Williams handed Ganju a pad. "Governor Worthing has been talking to his people. They're confident that at least ten of the ships can be refitted for relay travel."

"At max capacity, that's maybe seven hundred thousand." Ganju frowned. "Maybe."

"If so many as one get out, I'll consider it a victory." Joachim brought the tactical map up. "In the meantime, consolidate BCT-One, and prep what fortifications you can. I want forward observers deployed to early warning sights at one hundred, fifty and twenty five klicks out, and comms with all civilian outposts by morning. Make it happen, Colonel."

Turning, Joachim walked toward his new desk. "And get me Shepard."

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**(A/N: A bit of nomenclature for you. A plate carrier is a nifty bit of load carrying equipment. You wear it like a vest, with your main plates on the front and back, and maybe some thin ones in the sides. On the front, you attach your magazine carriers, admin pouch, and other utility pouches (SORD makes great stuff) while on the back you can strap a hydration pack or some other useful thing. Though I prefer a belt rig for patrolling, a plate carrier is a great bit of kit, and infinitely preferable to some of the more cumbersome body armour platforms out there.**

**Why do I tell you this? Just to see if you're paying attention.**

**Side note, I'm finding fresh air and lager to be an amazing stimulant for writing.**


	25. That's So Obelisk

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty Five: That's So Obelisk

**DEFENSIVE POSITION CENTRAL**

**ALPHA COMPANY, 1****ST**** BATTALION, BCT-ONE**

**AT SOUTHERN END OF CENTRE RIDGE**

A week's worth of beard growth on Captain Bob McDevitt's chin caught the sweat he was dripping and made the already intense heat a little more unbearable. The temperature was climbing into the low forties already. Thankfully, there was no humidity, just the heat of a hot sun beating down on their heads.

With a grunt, he continued swinging his mattock, breaking up rock and clay from the firing pit he was digging. When the order came through to begin developing the positions, Bob had kicked his company into gear immediately. They had worked furiously through the night, sinking all twenty seven pits down to chest height by the time the heat really kicked in.

Bob had taken extra precautions, scrounging razor wire, fence posts, sandbags, and whatever else he could find. He had set up wire obstacles, double sandbagged each of his pits to provide extra cover from direct fire, sunk at least one dugout per pit, and staked each of his machine guns.

Colonel Gurung had been industrious with the units available to him. Satisfied that the infantry was dug in deep, he had set them to digging firing pits for the armour. Each pit had to be sunk a metre deep, with a ramp for it to be reversed out at a moment's notice.

With the division's sapper units either dead or missing, McDevitt had drafted construction workers and what equipment they had kept with them. He had laid concrete fortifications in as many of the tank pits as he had room for.

Since that wasn't quite enough, he was now back in the pit, scraping out the last of the rubble. His muscles relished the work, it gave his brain a chance to rest. He wasn't cut out for this officer game, NCO work suited him just fine. And digging a firing pit was something he did very well.

"Captain, a moment." He heard Colonel Gurung's voice, and twisted his head around to look up at his new CO.

"Of course, sir." His voice was hoarse from calling orders and lack of water. He'd have gone to the Battalion Aid Post, if he could have spared the ten minutes necessary to grab a jumped up throat lozenge.

"I hope you're settling into your new command." Gurung knelt by the pit, extending his canteen to Bob, who gratefully took a swig. "Did the men get their food last night?"

"Yes sir. Each man got a hot meal, reasonably warm coffee, a cold wash and a change of clothes."

"Were there sufficient uniforms?"

"Not in desert camouflage, sir." McDevitt gestured to a few of his men in shirts and shorts. "Lieutenant Colonel Chekova assured me that she'll have the urban camouflage washed, repaired, dyed brown and then re-issued."

"Quite a situation, eh, Captain?" Gurung shook his head. "I have intelligence officers commanding battalions, and senior lance corporals commanding platoons."

"The men are ready for a fight, sir." McDevitt promised him. "You've put good troops in the line. And with first line ammo, we're set for as long as you need us."

"Well, I'm going to need you to adapt again, Captain." Gurung gestured to his line. "General Williams has requested three of the best and most experienced platoons, trained in ship boarding operations. And Commander Shepard requested you by name."

McDevitt frowned. "Sir, we've barely got three platoon's worth of Marines left in this battalion. And they're all that's holding the militia and cops together."

"General Williams is aware of the problems in manpower, the situation is brigade wide." Gurung shook his head. "Your orders are to select a platoon of your best men, which you will command. Appoint a temporary commander, I'll brevet them if need be."

McDevitt hesitated, then glanced to his side. "If I may ask...is this it, sir? The big one?"

Gurung grinned. "It just might be, Captain. It just might be."

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**HNV **_**TYREAUS**_

**HANGAR BAY 1A**

=This is Blackwatch Frigate _Harrier_, on final approach.= The fractured voice of the frigate captain was the first thing that alerted Desolas that something was wrong. The next was his words. =Sir, there has been...an incident. Request a suppression team with flamethrowers and heavy weapons be present for...extermination operations.=

Desolas was already moving as the air traffic controllers put a call throw to the ship's Lancer detatchment. As he walked, he lifted his hand. "Team One, with me!"

If something had gone wrong, it could not have gone wrong on a small scale. He had dispatched all of the Fourth Platoon of the Blackwatch aboard the Harrier. Anything that they could not have dealt with was something that no mere Lancer Platoon could hope to deal with.

As the commander of a Frontier Legion, Desolas was afforded two teams of the Sworn for his personal bodyguard. Cybernetically enhanced, and specially equipped and trained for close protection, the Sworn numbered at less than two thousand, and were charged with the protection of the Hierarchy's most vital leaders.

And with eight of them currently at his back, Desolas strode grimly toward the largest hangar bay on the ship.

From the second he saw it enter the hangar bay, he knew the mission had gone terribly wrong. The outside lines were scorched, two of the thrusters were completely wrecked. The blunt nose of the frigate had crumbled from an obvious ramming attempt.

The Lancers around the bay were grim faced, heavy mass accelerators, flame throwers, and more than one grenade launcher being firmly levelled at the front ramp.

Desolas gave a directory nod to Urelius, the team leader. "Be ready to bring down any intruders. If necessary, vent atmosphere in the bay."

"Will it come to that, sir?"

"The first two teams the Hierarchy sent never returned, Operative." Desolas glanced back at the Lancer platoon lead. "Draw what conclusions you will."

The ramp began to lower, accompanied by a snap of weapons priming.

Desolas held his breath, daring to hope for a glimpse of his prize...

...only to see half a dozen badly wounded and maimed Blackwatch operatives stagger down the ramp toward the line.

"Halt!" One of the Lancers stood. "Identify."

"Lieutenant Bar Actus!" The ragged leader grated over a shattered mandible. "Commander of the Fourth Platoon."

Desolas stepped forward. "Let him through! Lieutenant!"

Spotting his commander, the wounded officer staggered towards him. "General Arterius, sir!"

"Get the medics over here, now!" Desolas snapped at the Lancers, even as he grabbed the arm of the wounded officer and slung it over his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, sir. So sorry." Actus rambled as Desolas led him to a stretcher. "My command...my whole command in ruins, sir."

"What happened?" Desolas demanded, even as he eased his wounded soldier into the hands of the medical staff.

"We went in slow, like you said, sir." Actus continued to stare at Desolas with eyes that had seen too much. "I bombarded the area around the temple, took out most of the defences that brought down the last few teams. We secured the artefact without any resistance..."

"The artefact? What is it? Where is it?"

"We were on our way back out." The officer's eyes glazed over. "They came out of the jungle, we never even saw them."

"Who came out?"

"The defenders, sir, the defenders of the temple." Actus grabbed his hands. "I lost twelve in the opening salvo, and another four in hand to hand before we killed the rest of them. Then...the others."

"Others?"

"We were tracked, sir." Actus continued to grip his talons. "STG...and Justicars. But not working together. They were as surprised to see each other was we were to see them. We got lucky, it was a full regiment...and a reinforced hunting party. They focussed on taking each other out...and in the confusion we were able to get back to the Harrier. The Justicars must have won...they caught up with us right as we finished loading. I lost all my biotics just killing one of them. I decided to blow the Obelisk, ordered my last four unwounded men to carry it out."

"You blew the Obelisk?" Desolas hissed with anger as he looked back at the frigate.

"No...no we couldn't." Actus was descending into some kind of delirium. "It protects itself...it protected us...they protected us. Saw...a Justicar...torn in half...the others all...screaming..."

Years of well honed command instincts kicked in. Desolas wheeled around to see several of the Lancers advancing up the ramp. "No!"

The point man twisted his head to look back. "Wha-"

The thing that speared its hand straight through the Lancer's chest was not something Desolas would have cared to meet on a dark night. To the best of his knowledge, the members of Fourth Platoon only had basic augmentations, yet the four figures that had begun to scythe their way through the Lancer's line glistened with silver and black steel, their eyes bright blue bulbs scanning in every direction for targets.

Even as he directed Urelius and his men into firing positions, Desolas could not help but feel a thrill of success. He had found it.

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The briefing room was a lot smaller than the one at Colonial HQ in Outreach. But even then, there were a lot of empty seats compared to the packed conference room little more than a week previously.

The senior police and emergency service personnel were dead from orbital strikes. The lieutenant governor and the Alliance Intelligence Service director were both lying in a makeshift hospital. Commodore Franks was missing. Most of the regiment, battalion and air commanders were dead, dying, too badly wounded to move, or missing.

Williams examined his new command team, Governor Worthing, and a handful of recently appointed civilian personnel grimly. Whilst Ganju had been the best choice for brigade commander, his other selections had not been so easy. Ganju had selected Major Chekova for one of the infantry battalions, breveting her to Lieutenant Colonel. A militia major had been promoted and assigned to the reserve battalion. Neither had frontline command experience, but they'd proved their worth in the fighting, and that was good enough for Williams.

Williams had personally selected the commanders for the armoured squadrons. A tank captain named Brennan had demonstrated extraordinary competence during the withdrawal, Williams had bumped him to Major and given him the heavy armour. Major Haddin had been given the light armour.

Harper and Shepard were both still alive, and miraculously, so was their team. That was good. He needed that team. And more than ever, he needed options.

"Gentlemen, ladies." He nodded at the group. "We've taken quite a pounding over the last week. Lost some old friends, lost our land. The situation is...rather dire."

Drained faces and sunken eyes stared back at him, and Williams was reminded that he wasn't the only one losing sleep over this fight. "I have consulted with each of you, individually, on the best course of action with what resources we have left. Some of you have insisted on an immediate attack, others on a furthering of defensive positions. In the end, I have decided on a third option."

He tapped his display. The by now familiar appearance of the enemy dreadnaught blinked into existence. "I have decided that the best course of action is the one the enemy will least expect. An assault on the heart of their command and control. Their dreadnaught."

There was a shift in the posture of his command team. He had caught their attention. Now he had to convince them. "The interrogations of our turian prisoners has revealed several interesting factors. Turian command and control is rigid, down to the last fireteam. They need the comms suites and command centres of a dreadnaught just to keep it all spinning. The second, the turians have been taking large numbers of human prisoners, up to five hundred, up to the dreadnaught for processing and interrogation. Most of them are frontline Marines, our best men, captured in Outreach. And the third, the two head commanders of this task force, the ones raining down fire above us, can be found on the dreadnaught, if we time it right."

The team was hooked now, an almost manic gleam appearing in Harper's eyes as he processed the data.

"General Desolas Arterius was on planet until a few hours ago." Williams brought up an image of an angular troop transport with elegant markings. "Our remaining recon assets in the city sent us this. It's the general's personal transport, taking him back up to the ship. We don't know how long he'll be there, but I don't intend to wait for him to leave."

"Is that our mission, sir?" Mack Shepard raised his hand. "Assassination of their leadership?"

"Actually, their deaths serve a bigger purpose in the larger plan, Commander." The general answered him. "According to one Commander 'Lacriss' Vakarian, if a spaceborn C&C vessel is compromised, turian SOPs are to transfer C&C groundside, to a hardened and networked location. Colonel Chekova believes that they are currently using one of our abandoned bases. Echo Base, to be precise."

"Tarmacs, hangars, barracks." Gurung looked annoyed. "I should have ordered the whole thing demolished after we left."

"You may have done us a favour." Williams gestured to the western side of Echo Base. "Our field training area. Five hundred kilometres of forest, forest that our men are _very_ familiar with. To the north, open country, with a downhill slope directed to the base."

Chekova looked startled. "You want to attack it? Divide and conquer?"

"To be more accurate, I want to divide and conquer, and get to the storage hangars at the end of the base." The image zoomed in on the mega-hangars. "And the Settlement Fleet therein."

The command team looked at each other. Major Brennan raised his hand. "Sir...if I read you right...you want us to board and disable or destroy a dreadnaught, retrieve the prisoners on board, and eliminate the two senior military officers directing the invasion. You then want us to attack and take our former CP, so you can retrieve a mothballed fleet."

"Almost, Major." Williams smiled. "I want you to take our former CP, hold it for at least four hours, whilst we spin up the drives on these ships, load up as many civilians as we can manage, and then ride those ships the hell off this planet."

There was silence.

Lieutenant Colonel Chekova raised her hand. "Sir? If I may?"

"By all means."

"Sir. You are completely, fucking insane." The Russian cracked a grin. "When do we start?"

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It was the first time that a Hierarchy dreadnaught had been boarded since the Krogan Rebellion.

It was certainly as bloody.

The screams of dying turians echoed around the bay, almost fifty Lancers, security officers and deckhands lay dead or dying under the scything swipes of the four not-turians.

The welcoming platoon had exhausted their flamethrower fuel and grenades just bringing down one of them. They had redlined their rifles and burned out their heatsinks bringing down a second. That was when most of their casualties had been taken, as they scrambled around, trying to find new weapons or equipment with which to defend themselves.

Desolas had turned the tide by crushing one with a cargo loader, smashing in its skull and destroying whatever intelligence still controlled this...husk.

The Sworn had struck the final blow, magnificent as always. As a pack, they had taken out the last monster's legs, then pinned it down whilst Urelius personally sawed off its head.

Fifty men, just bringing down four. It was everything Desolas had hoped for.

When he finally boarded the ship, he kept a distance from the artefact, massive and black and glowing with unseen power. Beautiful. He chuckled a little. A client race? No. This would be what restored glory to the Hierarchy. Humanity would simply be a nice addition to what would become a massive collection.

"Urelius! Form a perimeter around this ship, allow none to board." Desolas turned away. "Contact my brother and order him back to the ship immediately. We have real work to do."

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"We have six low-orbit capable shuttles." Williams gestured to Flight Lieutenant Alistair. The young pilot was the most senior air power officer remaining, and for all the bandages and bruises, he was the best that Williams had. "Pilots, air crew, and just enough fuel to boost into high orbit."

Mack raised his hand. "Sir, even if we can get those shuttles into range of that dreadnaught, they'll pick us up and destroy us the second we can't answer their comms."

"Chekova?"

The intelligence officer turned infantry commander stood up. "Thanks to our asari and salarian guest, we were able to build a thorough lexicon of the turian language. Using this, and certain hallucinogenic agents, we were able to conduct a very thorough...subversion of our primary captive, Lieutenant Vyrnnus. Using him, and a few other captives, we will trick our way past their outer defences. Our guests will insist that they're flying back to the dreadnaught on captured enemy shuttles."

"There's no way in hell that they'll go for that." Harper shook his head. "They'll blow us out of the sky before we're within docking distance."

"Not necessarily." Alistair spoke up, the young pilot more calm than could have been expected for a man shot down twice in the last few days. "From what the prisoners have coughed up, they do not have a terribly high opinion of us. If they don't expect subterfuge, we have a damn good chance of making it all the way."

"Okay, so say we sneak our way past their fighter screens, frigate picket, their point defense system and their hangar sentries...what then?" Harper challenged the pilot. "Do we just beat down the door to their eezo core and set demo charges on the control console? Break into into their brig, carrying enough weapons and gear for five hundred Marines? Oh, and while we're at it, why don't we just stroll onto their bridge, and kill both of their most senior officers, all the while surrounded by potentially thousands of angry, killer aliens?"

Gurung coughed slightly. "Well...that is our plan...in brief, of course."

"Of course it is." Harper sighed. "Who gets what?"

One of the men Harper vaguely recognised, a scruffy bearded Marine in baggy cams, stood up. "Sir, the main force elements for the assault will be the Tier-One platoon under you and Commander Shepard, and three platoons of Marines."

"We will divide our forces evenly across the shuttles." Gurung explained. "No one shuttle will carry every member of the same team. That way, should two or three be shot down, we will not lose every vital member of the mission at once. Each shuttle will also carry an equal amount of mission critical equipment. One shuttle's loss will not mean the end of the mission."

"Once on board, you will split into three units." Gurung continued. "The first, comprising of Harper and Shepard's men, will assault through to here, what we believe is the C&C area of the ship. You will kill Targets Alpha and Bravo, a female turian named Jhirx, and a male turian named Arterius. You will identify them via uniform, should be bright and sparkly. I want confirmed kills on both of them. Further to this, you will kill as many command staff as possible. Operations officers, gunners, navigators, etc. Should our mission to blow that thing out of the sky fail, we will restrict her ability to operate. Captain McDevitt?"

"Sir." The Marine indicated the rear portion of the ship. "As best we know, both the eezo core and the main holding areas for our prisoners are in the rear portion of the ship. The holding area is lightly guarded, mostly with automated riot suppression gear. So we will send one of our platoons to crack through their defences, with enough light weapons carried on trolleys behind them to resupply two companies. After that, the re-armed prisoners will make their to the lower decks, seize the transports used to bring them up here, and secure them for our exfil."

"Meanwhile, I will lead the other force of two platoons, comprised of experienced heavy infantry and combat engineers, to the engineering deck, blast my way past their defences and then set charges on the eezo core. We exfil to the hangar bay, board the transports, then blow the charges and rabbit out."

Harper looked around for a second. "And you all expect this plan to work?"

"It's better than anything we've had so far." Shepard murmured as he stared at the rotating image on the display.

"Perhaps, but it's got more holes in it than Hislop after a night in Oldtown."

"One question." Shepard raised his voice. "Jack and I will take down Mr. Arterius. Captain McDevitt will kill the ship. Will the platoon commander hitting their brig be capable of organising five hundred prisoners in just a few minutes?"

"Not in the slightest." Colonel Gurung shook his head. "That is why I will be coming with you."

Harper reached for a flask inside his jacket. "Oh, this is going to be interesting."

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**A/N: Oh, what's this? Two updates inside a week? IMPOSSIBRU!**

**On a more serious note, I've taken a very long break from Mass Effect, a culmination of being sick and tired of the game, BioWare in general, the ME fanbase in particular and just a whole heap of other factors.**

**However, re-reading Logical Premise's and Setrus' work actually got me in the mood for writing again, and re-writing the parts of the game and backstory that could have been so much better. So, I'm back in, and back in till the end. See you starside.**


	26. Schemes and Plotsare the same thing

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty Six: Schemes and Plots...are the same thing.

**SSV McKINLEY**

**FLAGSHIP, SECOND FLEET**

**EN ROUTE TO THE MILLIGAN CLOUD**

"Ma'am, I will say it again, since you seem to be hard of hearing." Captain Crawley repeated as he followed her into the elevator. "No wide bodied vessel has ever successfully traversed the Milligan Cloud. The _Orion_, the _Hercules_, the _Gatherer_. They all have one thing in common, they were vessels larger than a frigate that tried sneaking their way through that death trap."

"Problems, Captain, problems. I need results." Drescher scolded him gently as she tapped the command key for the bridge. "Results which you are being singularly lacking in producing."

The door opened to the bridge, spilling Drescher and Crawley into the hive of activity. The Fleet was moving as fast as possible with the solar storms raging around it, that is to say, flogging their navigation computers and eezo cores in equal measure.

Returning the salutes of the Marine guards, Drescher walked past them and slammed her fist down on the door panel leading to her ready room. Entering quickly with Crawley fast behind her, she surveyed the scene in front of her with her typical grimness. "Attention on deck!"

The motley collection of senior naval officers and Marines jumped to attention as they heard her. They looked tired, unshaven, stressed. Some of them had discarded uniform jackets. Pads covered in navigation data, troop strengths, and fleet updates were strewn about the room.

"Before you say anything." Drescher began crisply. "I want to complement you all on your dedication to this mission. For thirteen hours, you have been collating data, troubleshooting mission ops, and generally trying to solve some very tough, and unforeseen problems relating to the first combat deployment of an Alliance fleet. During that time, none of you have offered a word of complaint or protest to my face. That is professionalism of the highest order, and I approve."

She leaned forward, her jaw set. "Now, can anyone give me a better solution on how to get this fleet through the Milligan Cloud now, than you could two hours ago."

There was silence.

Finally, Rear Admiral Simpson spoke. A bull like man with a shaved head, he was one of the few in the fleet that could stare Kastanie in the eye and not cower in fear when she raged. "Ma'am. I will once more advocate for advancing a corridor of scout frigates through the Cloud, having them activate pulse beacons, and guiding the Fleet through off their telemetry."

"Which will take days, if not a week to pull off safely, and we'll likely lose ten percent of the fleet to rogue meteors." Kastanie shut him down immediately. "Unacceptable."

"Ma'am, my fighters could form up in a solid wall at the front of the fleet, then blast through a clear space that the rest of the Fleet could follow behind." One of the squadron leaders held up his hand.

"I'll need every fighter I have once we get to Shanxi." Kastanie dismissed that idea just as rapidly. "I'll not throw away most of the force to meteors and nav hazards."

"Captain Webb advocates that every ship over extend their kinetic barriers in order to repulse the..."

"People, could I remind you what the Milligan Cloud is? It's a mass of junk gases and ruined moons, making up half a star system! We lose all visibility inside it, physical and sensor. Weapons won't function, engines foul up! Under best circumstances, it takes a frigate with advanced sensors two hours to cross it at top speed. I've got to move near ten score of warships, resupply vessels and troopships across it in less than twelve hours. And what I'd like to think are the finest minds in the fleet can't give me a better option than establishing a damn traffic signal, trying to play minesweeper with my fighter force, and destroying my shield emitters before we even get into combat!"

The room was quiet as Kastanie finished.

"We're six hours out, and so far none of you have given me anything aside from 'it can't be done.' I've already made the decision, we are going. It is your responsibility to give me a safe option for making this transit, but also a fast one. If you can't do that, then I will damn well use your ships to clear the way."

Everyone looked at each other, no one willing to offer another solution. No one...except one young officer with brown skin, fair hair and pale eyes. He raised his hand slowly, a short man amidst giants. He looked at Kastanie without fear. "Ma'am. I believe I have a solution."

"By all means..." Kastanie offered a sweeping hand to the floor. "Share it, Lieutenant...?"

"Ahern, ma'am. Tadius Ahern."

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"The main cities have all been pacified and secured. Scattered resistance groups are still harrying our men in minor skirmishes, but it is disorganised and has resulted in few casualties." Desolas delivered the updated report from his regiment commanders on the ground. "Tallies of captured manifests and identification documents have revealed that our estimates of total population may have been...exaggerated."

"I see." Jhirx did not turn to look at him. "Exaggerated in...size? Scope? Strength? Or just total population."

Desolas did not answer her.

"A military career putting down rebellions, crushing pirates and executing slavers." Jhirx clenched her fists. "And I forgot to check for the obvious signs. Extensive Terraforming, an environment too hot for this species to naturally enjoy, a population size far below expectations. It's a colony, all along. Not a homeworld, not even a core world. A single, isolated colony."

The General remained deathly quiet.

Jhirx turned to stare at him. "You knew?"

"I had my suspicions."

"You knew, and did not tell me." Jhirx murmured. "The single most important piece of information that I required for my discussions with Primarch Sparatus...and you concealed it from me."

"It was not relevant..."

"Did you know that due to a worker's strike on Dson, believed to be engineered by the Matriarchy, the crop was exceedingly low this year?"

Desolas was still. "The crop...?"

"That produces most of the _tesh _and _foltesh _for Palaven, yes, that crop." Jhirx advanced on him. "To get the money to create it synthetically, we will have to borrow from the volus, who will want more ships, more economic autonomy, more trading rights. Did you know that the Hierarchy is overdrawn on all accounts and credit reserves in Citadel space?"

Desolas hesitated.

"And that the asari have offered to make good on the debt...provided that we give them the plans to the new Arvad-point defence system." Jhirx grated her teeth. "_Give_ them the plans. Our species, and its inability to manage the simpler aspects of capitalism are reducing us to a laughing stock in Citadel space. The turians, who have enough firepower to reduce a planet to ashes, but the inability to purchase a single loaf without advice from a volus."

"I have made a discovery." Desolas interrupted her rant with quick, calm form. "One of my teams finally made the return trip from the Temple of Ozrac."

Jhirx twisted. "Do not attempt to allay my wrath with extravagant tales, Desolas. The Temple of Ozrac is a myth."

"A myth that I found, using the ancient charts from when our forebears sailed the very solar flares that made our species strong." Desolas lifted his omni-tool. "We found it in a system near this one, we were lucky that our patrol route carried us so close. I found it and retrieved it, the heart of the Temple's power."

The omni-tool projected the image. "The Monolith of Valluvian the Priest."

"Rumoured to grant incredible strength and ability to all who keep the Way." Jhirx snorted. "Surely you can't believe..."

"Check your crew manifest, Admiral. You just lost fifty soldiers to four soldiers who touched that Monolith."

Jhirx paused. "Fifty?"

"Each of those soldiers possessed cybernetic enhancements beyond anything I've ever seen." Desolas showed her the remainder of the security footage. Jhirx watched with interest as the taller, stronger, more aggressive remnants of the Blackwatch troopers tore their way through the Lancer detail. "Completely focused on clearing and protecting the area around the vessel. Imagine a hundred soldiers such as this? Imagine a thousand?"

"We could end this war in seconds...no matter how many colonies or homeworlds these primates possess..." Jhirx mused. "And beyond..."

"Beyond, it means restoring a sense of fear to the asari, the salarians, any and all who seek to cross us." Desolas smiled. "It does not mean power, it means invincibility."

"How soon can you begin converting your soldiers?"

"I will require volunteers. Our wounded and crippled would be a good place to start."

"We cannot allow the Primarch, of Palaven or elsewhere, control of this resource."

"You are proposing?" Desolas chuckled.

"Perhaps it is time I considered more thoughtfully your offer of an alliance." Jhirx glanced at him, flashing him a rare smile. "You are for more resourceful than I initially thought. And should we be successful...there will be no one who will question your commitment to the Hierarchy, or to all of turian kind."

Power, thought Desolas as he stepped into her arms, was a more alluring perfume than any other.

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"Not all Prothean artefacts get the attention they deserve." Ahern brought up a list of planets and star systems from the database. "Unless it's a relay, a data cache, or defunct Prothean ships and weapons, we don't maintain more than a small research base at the site, if that. I remember reading about this in a journal by Admiral Grissom a few months ago."

He finally found the one he was looking for. "Here, Tavor, grid four hundred by seven six two. Right on the other side of the Milligan Cloud. Unremarkable, barely suitable for humans to breathe, no arable land, water has all sorts of nasty minerals in it. Grissom did land a shore party though, and they found this, a small outpost that they translated as 'The Pinnacle'."

"I've heard of it. Completely unremarkable, from what I heard." Kastanie leaned over the console next to him. "Little more than a listening post."

"Actually, Grissom surmised that it was probably more of a weather station, kind of a scanning post...and a lighthouse."

"Lighthouse?"

"What he was interested in was the ability of the outpost to blast thin layers of energy through the cloud. The waves reflected off the asteroids and volatile gas pockets, lighting them up for fly by wire, more powerful than any standard LADAR could. In effect, it provided a running update to the nav maps in the vicinity."

"Okay, so why didn't we leave it powered on?" Kastanie raised an eyebrow. "More importantly, why didn't Grissom mention it?"

"Probably because it takes more power to run this thing than it does to run a carrier." Ahern grimaced. "The old Prothean power plant that ran this thing was one of their smaller ones, and it still could have powered the strobe lights in every strip club in downtown New York. And to be candid, ma'am, that's a fuck-ton of strobe lights."

"And the Cloud isn't exactly a shortcut..."

"No ma'am. The fastest route is always via the main relays."

"But you've clearly brought it up for some reason?"

"Well ma'am, whilst it would take a frigate with cutting edge sensors two hours to make its way through the Cloud, with the Pinnacle activated it wouldn't take much more than an hour for even a large group of ships to boost through on maximum conventional power."

Kastanie leaned back, her arms folded. "And how do we light up the Pinnacle for an hour?"

Ahern looked at her, his pale eyes devoid of levity. "We fly our best frigate through the Cloud, set her down on Tavor and plug her engine in to the Pinnacle. We then activate the Pinnacle, and keep it activated until the rest of the Fleet can navigate through. From there, it's only a two day hop to Shanxi."

Kastanie liked it. Liked it a lot better than the solutions she had been hearing. "Not a bad plan, Mr. Ahern. But what if the Pinnacle is under enemy occupation?"

"Force with force, ma'am. An assault platoon of S7 Marines will accompany the frigate through the Cloud, and secure the Pinnacle for the boffins to do their work."

"And who will lead the platoon?"

Ahern smiled bashfully. "I have my S7 rating, ma'am. I was planning on leading the mission myself."

Kastanie was satisfied by this. "Your plan, your mission, Lieutenant. You have five hours to assemble your men, select a frigate and prep for launch. If we're not through the Cloud ten hours from now, I'm going to be very disappointed with you."

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Even after a night in the quarters of his Admiral, Desolas could not sleep. Something was calling to him, beckoning him away from the warm body next to him. Standing up with a reluctant growl, he donned his uniform and made his way out without waking her.

He'd always felt oddly protective of Sablet, from the moment he took her as his lover when they were junior officers. It has been his pride that made him refuse her as a bond mate when she offered herself to him. An Arterius could not marry a Jhirx, a family whose patriarch was third in line on the meritocracy for the Primacy of Palaven.

That first rejection had hurt her more than he cared to see. She had pursued him until she became a ship captain...and he became lonely. Then their positions reversed, and she had taken inordinate delight in tormenting him across the length and breadth of turian space, only taking him into her bed when she deigned to.

All of that would change once he assembled his new army and launched his campaigns against the Terminus. Thousand of pirates, slavers and warlords would be viciously crushed underneath the weight of just a few hundred of the new warriors, and it would send an important message to what would be an awestruck galaxy. For such a deed, Desolas would be more than just a Senator, or Primarch of some pathetic outworld. He would have Palaven itself to satisfy the honour of Arterius.

The nagging feeling in his brain drew him down to the main hangar bay, back to the ruined frigate that someone had thought to tow out of the way. He found someone seated by the ramp, polishing a long barrelled sniper rifle.

"Saren."

"Brother." The young turian stood up. "You weren't in your quarters."

His tone was accusatory. Desolas smiled. "I was otherwise occupied, brother."

"You seem to have a lot of other occupations besides winning this confrontation." Saren walked toward him. "Politics, social climbing, archaeology..."

"Why do I feel like you're about to give me a lecture, little brother?" Desolas chuckled, but there was no humour in his voice, any more than there was in Saren's.

"When we started this fight, you were committed to a swift and easy victory." Saren advanced on him. "Yes, we suffered setbacks, but you persisted. But you let Jhirx wind you up, distract you. And now this? This obelisk? Monolith? The legend of Valluvian and his priests? You have colonels running your fight on the ground, naval captains making strike decisions. Where is the General of the Legion? Between the legs of the Fleet Comm-"

The blow that Desolas put across his face was harder than he intended it to be. Rather than simply stinging his insolent brother, it knocked Saren to the ground. Spitting out a mouthful of blue blood, his brother leapt to his feet, rage on his face. Desolas let go a little anger of his own. "This is the thanks I get for my work? For all the years I've taken care of you? Trained you? Mentored you? Advanced your career beyond that of anyone else in this family? You dare..."

"I dare because you are arrogant, over-confident, and you have lost _sight_ of what is at stake here." Saren spat back, injury in his voice. "Brother, you have never cared about the opinions of Primarchs and Admirals. You have won your rank through ability and bravery. Climbing the meritocracy has never mattered to you, nor has..."

"It is for you!" Desolas finally raised his voice. "For you...and for your children."

There was confusion in Saren's face. "Brother...I have no children."

"But you might." Desolas rested his hand on Saren's shoulder. "Brother, three tours back...I took a polonium round through the hip. I survived...but the tests came back...brother, I can never impregnate a female, no matter how much I may want to. You are the last hope of the Arterius line."

Saren looked stricken. "Brother, I...I..."

"I had hoped that this would be your last combat rotation." Desolas told him wistfully. "That you would have your fill of blood and glory, and be content to enjoy the spoils of victory...with a female and your platelings beside you. The more glory I take, the better your chances of a high match."

"You wish that I surrender my commission in the Blackwatch...my chances for the Spectres..."

"Aye." Desolas looked at him with regret. "It's a hard thing to do, a hard price to pay. But if we ever wish to become more than a subservient family to a larger clan, then at least some of our blood must be alive to do so."

Saren stepped back. "Des...I...I'm sorry."

"Saren." Desolas stood up. "You are named for our grandfather, a warrior through and through. You have made me proud beyond measure with your courage, your determination, your grit. I salute you, your people salute you. But all of this, Saren, is to ensure that we will never be the laughing stock of turian space again, that the Ragged General and his violent brother will be respected names, not feared ones."

"I understand." Saren looked away. "Brother, I don't want to appear ungrateful..."

"Then trust me." Desolas soothed him. "I've been at this a lot longer than you have. The Monolith, Jhirx, Primarch Sparatus and the Admiralty, it's all part of a game. A game that has been played since long before you or I were born. For the longest time, I believed I could stay free of the game, twist it to my own advantage. But now I have all the necessary pieces to play the game and win."

Saren turned away. "General, if there's one thing I've learnt, you should never play a game you have no aptitude for."

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**A/N: Three updates, rapid fire, go on.**

**Next update, we make like a pirate and board. Not bored, that would be the opposite of what we're trying achieve here.**


	27. The Climb

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter Twenty Seven: The Climb

**SUBTERRANEAN CENTRAL COMMAND**

**NORTHERN MOUNTAINS, SHANXI**

**OPERATION RESOLUTE, H-HOUR -1**

Columns of men and women filed through the stark metal corridors of the underground bunker, grim faced and heavily armed. Each Marine had been equipped with a hardsuit sprayed a mottled grey and black, as many as possible had been issued with mass accelerator rifles. Those without were carrying light machine guns, with thousands of spare 10.5mm rounds stuffed into ammo pouches or taped to their armour.

The six shuttles sitting on the tarmac were not military, that much was clear. Their lines were not blocky and efficient for hauling troops and cargo. Their engines were not the powerful Manswell Corp drives designed to power through dense atmospheres to drop off loads of Marines into combat zones. These shuttles were sleek and beautiful to look at, their small engines encased in elaborately painted nacelles. They were a step up from pleasure liners, barely, designed for VIP hauling and orbital tours.

And in less than three hours they would be carrying a reinforced company combat team into orbit in an attempt to board the alien dreadnaught sitting above the planet.

Gurung had been on many missions in his time as an enlisted man and as an officer of the line. But nothing quite so crazy as this. If anything went wrong, if the turians didn't fall for their spoofed IFF, if the enemy internal response was stronger than expected, if, if, if...then the whole group would be slaughtered.

"Captain McDevitt. Walk with me." He tapped the young officer on the shoulder as he passed him. "The men seem jumpy."

"I gave out orders half an hour ago, sir." McDevitt dodged a team of armourers hauling a trolley loaded with ammunition boxes. "Heading into space, hoping to dodge AA fire and fighter patrols, boarding an enemy dreadnaught and hoping to simultaneously rescue a few hundred prisoners, kill their generals and boost off the thing before we blow it up? I think they have a right to be more than a little jumpy."

"My first instructor used to say that fortune favours the bold, Captain."

"And mine told me that there are old soldiers and bold soldiers, but very few old and bold soldiers." McDevitt turned toward Gurung. "Sir, my boys are tired, but they're as ready as they'll ever be. No matter what happens next, more men are going to die. If they need a few minutes to come to terms with that, then I'm happy to give it to them."

"I've always found it best not to dwell on the inevitable." Ganju looked back at the Marines as they went about their work. "Death comes for every man in his own time. Why waste precious seconds considering a prospect that may happen at any time, regardless of how careful you are?"

"See now, sir, that's where you and I differ." Bob pointed at a tattoo on his left arm. An intricately drawn flower decorated his skin from elbow to wrist. "See this, sir? Black Rose. It's a symbol for death. Got it drawn a few years back when I was considering getting out. Weren't nothing special. Just getting sick of the long hours and the bad pay. But more than that, I had this feeling in my bones. I was scared of dying. Well, wasn't so much the dying...it was being forgotten that scared me. Dying without a wife or a kid. Dying without anyone remembering who I was, what I did."

"What stopped you from getting out?"

"The Black Rose, sir. A reminder that everyone and everything may die, but that doesn't mean you can't do something good in this world before you go. A rose can be all beautiful and pretty sitting in a flower bed, and that's all good. But the best roses get picked and put inside on mantelpieces, or given to pretty young ladies. They die faster, sure, but that's the price of being the best."

Ganju chuckled. "I am not sure what to make of your philosophy, Captain."

"I'm just saying, boss, give the lads a few minutes to sort their headspace out. They'll find their own Black Roses."

This gave Ganju a moment's pause. A small smile graced his lips. "Yes...I suppose they will."

He looked back at the elevator door. "If you will excuse me, Captain."

Before he had taken two steps, McDevitt called from behind him. "What's yours, sir?"

Ganju turned. "My what?"

"Your Black Rose, sir?"

Ganju mulled the question over a for a few seconds. "Kathar hunnu bhanda marnu ramro, Captain."

McDevitt looked confused. "Sir?"

"The motto of the Royal Gurkha Rifles, Captain. The foremost of all Her Majesty's rifle regiments. It means: 'It is better to die than live a coward'."

"I wish I was going with you."

"No you don't." Ganju finished sliding the last piece of his armour into place, clipping the pauldron in with a crisp snap, then rustling it again to be sure. "You're far too old for this kind of play."

"Too old?" Williams huffed. "You're about five years younger than me."

"I spend my formative years a rifleman, sir. I was a shooter first, then I led a section of shooters, then I commanded a platoon of shooters." Ganju lifted a rifle off of a rack and tested the balance. "I'm as trim as I ever have been. You, sir, could stand to lose a few kilos."

Neither of them laughed at the poor joke. Truth was, Ganju had never seen Joachim look thinner. Thin, and tired and stretched to breaking point. More than ever, Ganju was worried about his friend. The General was skipping meals, spending his hours going over maps and conferring with his command staff. That...and poring over casualty lists.

"In the event that I do not return, I would advise selecting Lieutenant Colonel Chekova to take my place." Ganju continued. "She may be a glorified data sniffer, but she's got a head for combined arms that would serve you well if you..."

"Gurung."

"Yes sir?"

"You're coming back, Colonel. No excuses. This planet needs you."

It had always struck Gurung as a weakness the way that General Williams treated his subordinates. To mourn the loss of a soldier under your command was noble. To put others in harm's way by obsessing over their deaths was not. "This harebrained scheme was mostly yours, as I recall. Are you trying to give me a hint that something is wrong?"

"Your talent for diverting the stream of conversation remains intact." Williams informed him drily. "I'm simply telling you to watch your six."

"And I'm simply advising you of a good replacement should I fail to survive." Selecting a rack of grenades, Ganju began to slot them into pouches across his chest. "Let's not become sentimental over practicalities, sir. Now, where did I put that..."

"Chalk it up to my old age." Williams passed Ganju a pistol and spare magazines. "I care about what happens to my men, Colonel. I've never been ashamed of that. If I can do something that keeps them alive, no matter how big or small, I have a duty to consider it."

"Perhaps that would matter with conscripts, sir." Ganju's eternally polite tone of disagreement never failed to irritate Williams. "But these men are volunteers. They asked to put their lives on the line, even when they were told the risks. The only consideration you owe them is that of any other commander to his troops. Anything else is on them."

"I don't think that the lads volunteering absolves me of responsibility for them." Williams corrected Ganju softly. "I think it increases it."

"And on that, sir, I believe we will forever disagree." Ganju did a final gear check, then nodded. "Now, sir, I need...

"Colonel."

Ganju turned around. Slowly, Joachim extended his hand. "It's been...quite some time now. Since we met, I mean."

"With Finnigan's Marauders shooting tracers past our ears." Ganju's smile was slight. "And there you were, still yelling orders like you still had a platoon left to command."

"I had something better than a platoon." Joachim never broke eye contact with his diminutive second. "I had you."

Slowly, Ganju reached out and took the proffered hand. "Still true, as it happens."

"I know." Joachim's voice wavered. "I wish..."

"I know, Joe." Ganju squeezed his grip a little tighter for half a second. "Would you...would you do me one favour if everything...?"

"Of course."

"There's a letter in my personal effects. The plain envelope. It's a letter to my father. I'd have left him a vid-message like Jess and the girls, only..."

"I doubt the General has a computer around to watch." Joachim chuckled.

"Precisely." Ganju looked toward the shuttle. "Well, that's my flight. See you when I get back, shall I?"

"I'll have the kettle on."

"First rate." Ganju gave him a brisk nod. "See you in a short while, old boy."

The armour felt heavy on him. Like someone had painted his skin with iron. Ganju relished it. He felt it once more, the old fire that once coursed through his veins as he waited in the dark, poised to strike, awaiting the dawn and the thunder of guns before crashing through the breach.

His blade was strapped to his back, the curved steel freshly sharpened and thirsty for blood. His pistol rested on his thigh, cleaned and polished, with oil sweetening her machinery. He took a rifle off a young private who nodded sombrely as he saluted.

The activity around the improvised hangar slowed to a halt as the soldiers and civilians milling around looked inward. Ganju saw admiration on the faces of some, fear on the faces of others. On many faces he saw relief, relief that they wouldn't be accompanying him to certain death on a mission that the sane amongst them knew to be two steps short of suicide. And on a few, there was shame at the same thing.

How could it be that he was so comfortable here and now, on the edge of the abyss? One misstep and he would never see home again, never match his strength against the young recruits, never match his wits against Father in their unending cycle of chess games. But then, he felt perfectly at home, right here. This was where he belongedThat brought him more peace than he thought possible.

"Oh, what a piece of work is man..." He mused quietly.

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Private, nothing at all." Shaking his head, Ganju turned back to the shuttle. "Well, let's get on with this."

"Two files each shuttle, fill from the rear" A loadmaster roared over the chaos as troops ran into position. "Each man will check his buddies harness, you do not want to be loose when we breach orbit."

"Joe will take the first section, Alex the second, and Gurpeet will have the third." McDevitt passed several pads to the junior NCOs around him as he walked toward his own shuttle. "Seniority of command will fall to your 2ICs. If I go down Sergeant Weathers will assume control of the platoon."

"Do we have schematics for the layout of the ship, sir?" Corporal Seers asked anxiously. "Can't blow up a reactor if we don't know where it is."

"We have rough directions that the intel guys managed to extract from our prisoners, but since most of them are ground troops, they don't have the best idea themselves." McDevitt pointed out the jumble of corridors at the top of the screen on each pad. "Depending on which landing bay we get shifted to, it could be anything from a straight walk to a fucking a maze. If any of you have prayers you wish to make, now would be the time."

"Casualty extraction, sir?"

"Normal casualty procedures do not apply, and that's direct from the general." The brevet officer's eyes were grim. "Fellas, I know what we normally say: Two men down renders us combat ineffective, but this isn't a normal mission. If we don't bring down this dreadnaught, then it'll just bring a whole lot of hurt down on us once they discover our defensive positions. So if your buddy takes a hit, and you can't patch him up and keep him fighting, then he has to be left behind. If they can walk then they can still make it to the evac bay. If not..." He left the sentence unfinished.

Seers nodded. "The mission comes first."

"Fucked up as it is, that's how it has to be." McDevitt swallowed as he approached the boarding ramp. "I don't want take anyone who's not willing...so if you want out this better be your get off point."

"Dead on the ground or dead in the sky, Bob, what's the difference?" Gurpeet shrugged. "As long as Alex doesn't shit himself and run, we should be fine."

It was a poor joke, but it broke the tension between them. McDevitt even managed a smile.

"You're in the presence of greatness, son." Alex hollered as he climbed aboard. "Greatness!"

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"_This is General Williams with a message for all ranks. Men and women of the Third. We have had a very rough time of it lately. Many of our fellow warriors lie fallen, buried amidst the ruined stones of our cities."_

"_I have never witnessed a finer display of arms than that which you have already given. And yet, amidst all our struggle, your brothers and sisters require still greater acts of daring and valour."d_

"_You will punch through into orbit, and bluff your way past our enemy's defences. You will drive into the very heart of their fleet, and you will rip it out with your bare hands. Strike swift, strike sure, strike without warning. Beard the lion in his den...and bring our people back home. Good luck…and Godspeed."_

"A charming speech, would you not agree, Lieutenant Vyrnnus?" Ganju cheerfully asked the gagged and bound turian POW as he reached the cockpit of his shuttle. "To lift the spirits of one's men, to inspire them to feats of daring and valour, it can be the most rewarding part of an officer's existence. Ah, but where are my manners? Corporal Petrovsky, undo our guests gag."

Vyrnnus was silent. He had become good at silence over the last week. When their interrogators answered his defiance with stun batons, when questions became more frequent, and finally when they realised that of all the turians taken prisoner, he was the most likely to break.

They had used several different methods. Pain compliance, sleep and food deprivation, and then using his own teammates against him. He had not undergone resistance to interrogation training like the rest of Commander Vakarian's team. He was a Lancer. A fighter of the most astounding capability. But his mind did not possess the weapons to fight their continual assault.

He had broken.

Ganju ignored the silence. "Did you know that your commander refused to believe that you had betrayed her? Given us the signal codes to your low level tactical communications? Explained the layout of the dreadnaught? Even given us the names of senior personnel."

Vyrnnus stubbornly refused to meet his gaze.

"She had more faith in you than you had in yourself. She was quite devastated when we revealed the truth. She was so distraught that she gave away a few extra bits and pieces in the process. Like your family's political power, for example. And your prestigious service about the vessel that shot down our Relay expedition."

That one truly hurt, and Vyrnnus looked up sharply. "The vessel was breaking…"

"Yes, yes. We realise that we broke some rule." Ganju's veneer of politeness was becoming strained. "That you've killed tens of thousands of innocent people for seeing us turn on a light switch. Wouldn't stand up in court, my lad. Wouldn't stand up at all. I'd be cashiered in an instant for making such a mistake. What did they did with you commander? Promote him?"

Ganju took the seat opposite Vyrnnus. "Mayhaps I'm reading you wrong, but you seem like the kind of soldier that enjoys promotion. Aye and enjoys glory too, the privileges of rank and honour always appeal to young officers."

"Do not think to gauge me, bareface!" Vyrnnus could not hold his temper any longer.

The short officer's smile now resembled a crocodile's. "Strike a nerve, did I? Very well, I'll be blunt. Do you know your role?"

"In exchange for the continued good health and well being of your prisoners, I am to help guide you onto the Tyreaus, and assist you in any way to retrieve the humans kept prisoner onboard her. Should I deliberately attempt to warn any other turian of your intentions, you will give the order to kill every last turian you hold."

"That's about the long and the short of it. And if we succeed in rescuing our people, what do you get?"

"You will release me, with the condition that I go straight to the Admiral with your conditions for a cease fire."

"Now we understand each other." Ganju looked pleased. Vyrnnus almost snapped out of his slump.

"I can't believe you would aid in the killing of men who have surrendered with the honours of war. Have you not the deceny to treat them as your own men are doubtless being treated?"

"Perhaps so. Perhaps not. It will all depend on how convincing you are."

"You would stain your own honour black just to…."

"Look me in the eye, Lieutenant." Ganju leaned forward. "Do you think I have no executed prisoners when the mission allowed me no other recourse?"

Vyrnnus didn't have to look to know what the answer was. "Turians do not execute our prisoners."

"Neither do humans, old boy. But needs must, Lieutenant. Needs. Must."

**A/N: Did I really just leave half a year gap for a measely three thousand words? Yes I did, it seems. Busy year for me, though. Finished uni, worked six months as a labourer, job market was just getting worse so I've signed on with the regular army. The constant exposure to a soldierly environment is giving me a lot of ideas for stories though, so don't despair. More chapters, and an eventual conclusion, are coming.**


	28. Let the Heaven's Rage…

The Siege of Shanxi

Chapter 28: Let the Heaven's Rage…

"_It would be incorrect to say that turians do not have a grasp of subterfuge. Rather, say that we understand and have a fine appreciation for seizing the element of surprise insofar as it grants us the continued initiative during combat. To my mixed regret and pride, however, my species is an unfailingly honest one. And those younglings not acquainted to the more dishonest ways of other species, to detect deception is a somewhat difficult skill to master."-General Septimus Oraka (Extract from 'By Any Means: A Turian Perspective on Human Warfare')_

**PERIMETER PATROL SEVEN**

**OUTER DEFENCE RING OF HNV **_**TYREAUS**_

**NIGHT CYCLE FOUR**

"Alright, alright, how about this one?" Arkus shifted slightly left on his course, flying closer to Nemus and Kor. "The salarian prostitute refused to service the krogan client. In response, he started blowing up the brothel. When she asked what he was doing he said 'I got completely fucked by the salarians the last time I started blowing up their shit, I'm hoping the same trick will work twice.'"

There was silence over the commlink.

"Come on guys? Really? Because of the genophage…get it?"

There was more silence. Finally Kor spoke. "We get it, Ark. It's just really not funny."

"I would say it's lucky you're a good pilot, since you'll never get a job in stand up." Nemus chimed in. "But you're not really a good pilot, either."

"You know, I might go and see the medics for a pain suppressant later." Arkus shot back. "Because carrying this flight on my back makes it sore after a while."

"Hah!" Kor chortled at that one. "You're a virgin and a coward, Ark!"

"You look like an asari and you talk like an inbred off Watai." Arkus replied as he steered his over Kor's, flipping an obscene gesture at him through the clear panels of his cockpit.

"I'm serious, Ark, I do not believe you've ever mated with a female."

"Well, if your mother is free this weekend, I believe I shall rectify that state of affairs."

"Kor's mother may have low standards." Nemus interrupted. "Low standards that may extend to rutting with krogan and vorcha. Nevertheless, I refuse to believe that she would ever disgrace herself with someone of your stature."

"Blather on all you like," Arkus laughed. "We all know who the best pilot in this phalanx is."

"Commander Marvil?"

"No, I think he means Lieutenant Kurri."

"I'm talking about me!" The young pilot called. "Lieutenant Arkus Tyvar! The greatest interceptor ever to set foot on the…"

"Cut the chatter!" Kor suddenly snapped. "I'm seeing slow movers on screen, just entering scanner range from the planet. They're not on standard approach vectors!"

As if a switch had been thrown, the members of the three ship fighter picket were suddenly on high alert.

"Anything scheduled this hour?"

"Two medical evacs and a prisoner transport, but they aren't due for another twenty minutes." Nemus fed extra power to his engines. "Their IFF tags are there…but I'm not getting a unit ID."

"Should I relay back to Tyreaus?"

"Negative." Arkus decided. "We'll get close and investigate. Could be just a faulty transmitter."

Engines flaring, the three fighters streaked across the ether, aiming for the small cluster of shuttles approaching the Tyreaus from its lateral vector. Arkus activated his short range comms gear, using a point to point transmitter to hail the lead shuttle.

"Unidentified shuttle, this is Perimeter Seven. Be advised that you have breached restricted airspace for the flagship. Transmit identity and approach authorisation in the clear."

The comm went silent for a few seconds. When it came back, the crisp and authority-laden tone of a superior officer sounded with just a thin edge of patient contempt. "Perimeter Seven, this is Special Duties Phalanx Two-Two under special orders from Admiral Jerks."

Arkus blinked. "Say again, Two-Two. Did you just say…"

"I said I was under special orders from Admiral Jhirx, Permiter Seven, what else would I have said?"

"Sorry, sir." Arkus was flustered. If some special operations shitbird was aboard that shuttle, he'd be in deep, deep…his eyes widened in suspicion as the shuttles came within visual range. "Two-Two, your shuttle is not of turian design. I need you to transmit your authorisation codes now…"

"What's your name, Perimeter Seven?" The officer on the unidentified shuttle asked.

Arkus shifted uneasily in his cockpit. "Why…?"

"Your name, now!"

"Lieutenant Arkus Tyvar!" Arkus sputtered hastily. "Why do you…?"

"Good." The officer's voice was now laden with menace. "Because when I make my report to Admiral Jhirx, and inform her that after nearly having my command shot out from underneath me on a dangerous mission to capture high ranking enemy personnel, barely escaping on captured enemy vessels, I had to deal with some up-jumped bareface in a fighter too good for him, requesting an approach authorisation that I don't need due to a spirits damned _standing order!_"

Arkus winced at the last roar. It didn't surprise him that the Admiral had issued some standing order that he hadn't bothered to read when it briefly scrolled past on the morning briefing sheet in the pilot's ready room. He began steering his fighter away. "My deepest apologies, sir. You're cleared for access. Would you like me to request medical personnel to meet you on arrival?"

"They'll already be there, Lieutenant." The officer coldly dismissed his attempted apology. "Be sure that you'll be hearing about this later."

The shuttles flashed past the fighters, heading straight toward the dreadnaught. Arkus felt the familiar sinking feeling of every soldier who had as good as poked a superior with a shockstick.

Nemus began chortling over the intercom. "Oh, you're not a virgin anymore, Arkus. You just rutted yourself better than anyone I've yet seen!"

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Ganju tried to keep the pleased smile off his face as he turned back to the cockpit. "Well, that should buy us a few minutes."

Shepard and Harper both looked at him with something akin to awe on their faces. When Harper spoke, it was with something in his voice that Ganju had never yet heard from the arrogant mercenary: Respect. "Sir…you just…threatened an alien into compliance."

"Mr Harper, if I truly believe there is one constant in the universe, it is that junior officers do not have the mental ability to resist the sound of a senior officer shouting at them." Gurung straightened his harness. "But I think we can thank Lieutenant Colonel Chekova for providing such an excellent synthesiser for the radio."

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McDevitt and his men waited in the hushed darkness of the cargo hold. Each man was strapped into a bucket seat hastily welded to the wall. The seats rattled and shook with each brief burst of the thrusters that brought them closer to their goal. Bob could smell the vomit from those unable to bear the turbulence.

A tight ball of fear clenched harder and harder in his gut each time he checked his wrist monitor and saw they were drawing closer and closer to their target. The old, familiar fear that lashed against his self control was the fear of death, the fear of maiming, the fear of failure. There was only one cure for the fear, to hurl himself without pause against the ranks of the enemy, just as he had hurled himself at every other challenge that had inspired such fear at him throughout his life.

For now, there was nothing to do but wait.

He looked at the men and women next to him. Each one was focused on something. Some gently rubbed the barrels of their weapons with cleaning cloth. Others examined their helmets as if they had just noticed something extremely interesting about the hardened surface. Still others studied the pages of holy books, muttering passages of prayer under their breath. And a few more held small, faded pictures in their hands, and allowed a few silent tears to fall for lovers and children they may never again see.

These were the men he had elected to fight with.

These were the men he had chosen to die beside.

So he swallowed the bile in his throat and chose to ignore the ball in his gut.

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Onboard a turian carrier, as with all other vessels that existed primarily to launch and retrieve smaller craft to do their fighting for them, control of takeoff and landing procedures was handled by one central department fully dedicated to managing the vast amounts of fighters, bombers and transports launched day in and day out.

Hangar control was always handled in the hangar itself, but central flight control kept a razor sharp eye on each hangar so as to ensure that each departure or arrival was in keeping with safety and efficiency standards. Though the Hierarchy Navy did not possess many carriers, each one was a pinnacle of technological development and military efficiency.

Turian dreadnaughts operated on a similar principle, with a central flight control group devoted to managing each hangar's safety and security. Unlike a carrier, however, it was considered a secondary station, and was not fully staffed unless the ship was running at full combat tempo. With most of the on-board fighters and transports deployed groundside, and with no immediate naval threats in the vicinity, Central Flight had only six personnel staffing a set of consoles that normally required twenty. Consequently, their attention was devoted to the fighter hangars in the forward half of the ship that were still launching and receiving patrols.

They couldn't have cared less about the lateral hangar receiving a hail to lower the airlock to receive a special duties package from the surface. The one turian who briefly glanced at a readout of the request didn't think it worth mentioning, let alone checking it against a manifest. He assumed, as with most of the unexplained arrivals and departures from the ship recently, that it was some other turian's problem.

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**HANGAR 4-B**

**NIGHT CYCLE 5**

"So, what have we got today?" Reth grunted as he slung a toolbelt over his shoulder. "Flyboys denting their fighters? Heavy lifters treating their ships like garbage haulers?"

"Just a couple of patch jobs, Reth." Crew Chief Saun chuckled as he strapped on his own belt. "Control said that they had to grab some kind of enemy transport in order to get out of a hot zone. Maybe we can take a look at them, get some kind of idea about their tech."

"Now you're just thinking above your station," Kapi's voice was amused as she led the trio across the landing pads toward the three strangely shaped shuttles sitting in front of them. "Maintenance techs don't get to look at captured enemy transports. I'm telling you, in about half an hour there's going to be some officers we've never seen before down here to conduct a battlefield clearance on these things so that they can get a better look at some primitive technology that barely managed to breach atmosphere."

"Maybe you're right." Reth agreed as the rear ramp of the first shuttle lowered to the ground. "But maybe I can dream of a little more glory than just polishing the undersides of ships that I'll never get to…"

"Oh yes, I can see it all now." Kapi interrupted him, walking backwards up the ramp as she pantomimed with her hands. "Brave Crewman Reth, earning himself a battlefield commission by personally saving the life of the Primarch's son by daringly…"

The turian gave a soft cry of surprise as she felt herself yanked backwards off her feet by rough hands. She tried to scream, but a knife sunk deep into the soft, unarmoured tissue under her jaw and ended her cry as it began.

Reth and Saun started back, shocked and confused. A few muffled coughs sounded from the shadows up the ramp, and sprays of blue blood were dashed over the hangar floor as silenced bullets perforated the brains of the technicians.

A dozen other maintenance and security personnel were scattered around the hangar bay. A skeleton crew for a night rotation. Some looked up as they heard the sound of falling bodies and the noise of boots slapping against the deck. More muffled thumps could be heard, followed by the louder thuds of bodies crashing to the floor.

In the small booth above the flight deck, two junior officers manned the Hangar Control Tower for Hangar Bay 4-B. One, in an unforgiveable lapse of discipline, was busy fiddling with an asari logic puzzle in between sips of a hot cup of tea. The other was busy working on his morning's logs. Neither of them saw the two snipers taking aim in the bay below them.

At landing plus sixty seconds, the one hundred operators of Task Force Resolute had boarded the HNV Tyreaus, inflicted seventeen casualties and remained undetected. The hangar filled rapidly with black and grey armour as the troops debarked.

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Everything happened in a blaze of motion. Tech specialists looked for terminals, wrist monitors, wall panels, anything with an output. Weapons and stores were unloaded from the shuttles. Gurung set his feet down on the alien deck and smiled broadly within his helmet. No noise, no alarms, no reinforcements. The element of surprise was his. He had seized the initiative of assault, now it fell to him to maintain it.

"Schematics downloaded through the worm, sir." One specialist reported triumphantly. "Captured access codes work like a charm. They haven't bothered to change the security access of their MIAs."

"Do we have locations?"

"Bridge, cells, main engineering. All here, sir."

"Dispense to all platoon commanders and trigger primary and secondary evac points now." Gurung checked his rifle one last time. "Shepard! Harper!"

The mercenary and the operator spared him a glance as he went past. He gave them a brisk nod. "You have your orders, gentlemen. Go create a fuss on the bridge, if you please."

He could almost see Harper's smile through the helment. Shepard's would be just as broad. "Would you like a small mess, sir? Or a medium one?"

"As large a mess as possible, my lads. No carnage to be spared."

McDevitt and his Marines were already putting the finishing touches on their gear. The young brevet had proven himself half a dozen times over in Ganju's opinion. If they made it out of here, he would personally request that his temporary commission be promulgated. That presupposed that they would get out of here, but he brushed aside that thought without further consideration. He was used to ignoring fear. Comfortable with it, even.

Only a single squad was left behind to defend the shuttles. If their primary goals didn't succeed, evacuation wouldn't matter anyway.

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It was pure luck that the humans had struck the Tyreaus in her night cycle. Had the day cycle been in full swing, the hallways would have been filled with turians going about their duties. As it was, with the night cycle running things at half strength, and the Tyreaus removed from combat close to the planet, the corridors were mostly deserted.

Turians followed strict routines when underway. Those who were hungry ate. Those who were tired slept. Those who wanted to exercise hit the sparring mats. Those who required entertainment played cards, read holo-novels, watched stored pornographic films purchased from the Citadel last shore leave. Lovers crept into each other's bunks. Fathers wrote letters to their children to be sent whenever comms silence was lifted.

And those who wondered the corridors in twos or threes were suddenly and violently overwhelmed and struck down by wave after wave of figures in black and grey armour.

Systems Alliance close quarter battle drills were the same for special forces as they were for the rank and file, the only difference was the amount of practice each individual had conducted over the course of his training.

Four abreast, each wave moved with lethal purpose in their stride. Enemy bodies were left where they fell. Each turian was armed with a pistol at the least, but their sidearms were not drawn, and some were not even activated. Only a scattered few wore armour and their shields were not activated.

Not since the Krogan Rebellions had a turian dreadnaught been boarded by a hostile force, and not since the Unification Wars themselves had anyone managed to do so by stealth. By luck and chance, the humans had bluffed and blundered through the holes in the turian defence grid. The amount of ships and troops deployed groundside, the repairs being conducted on the security grid following the hangar incident with General Arterius's scout ship, the weary attitude of a crew on boring orbital duty, and the complacency of being aboard one of the mightiest vessels in the Hierarchy Navy. All of these had exposed a brief gap in the dreadnaught's armour.

Blue blood fell like rain in payment for these mistakes.

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"Whilst small remnants of groundside forces continue to harry us within the major cities, most major combat operations have ceased." Colonel Septimus Oraka handed General Arterius his written report. "Regular infantry formations are now establishing refugee centres and POW handling points, whilst psyops units have begun broadcasting messages through low flying transports, calling for the surrender of this resistance. I have withdrawn spearhead formations for rest and re-armament on the Tyreaus."

"What about reports I'm hearing of troops fleeing toward mountain ranges in the north of the major continent?" Desolas scanned the reports, noting with some satisfaction that turian casualties had decreased drastically once Oraka had taken command. Saren's decision to relieve Colonel V'Tar had likely saved them hundreds more dead and wounded.

"Whilst we have discovered tunnels leading toward the northern mountains, we currently have no indication that any large formations of enemy troops were able to escape." Oraka handed the general another padd. "I request a sign off on my order for close terrain reconnaissance by scout ships. If there are strongholds out there, we'll find them."

"Of course." Desolas gave the request a quick scan before he flicked his signature at the bottom. "What is the morale of the men like?"

Oraka did not hesitate. "Terrible, sir."

Desolas waited for the ground commander to provide further detail. "Victory has not lifted their spirits?"

"They were in better temper when bullets were flying overhead." Oraka answered him with visible tightening of his mandibles. "But current degredation had several causes. First there was insufficient intel and reconnaissance preceding our landing. The Shock Phalanxes were shot to pieces on landing and never gave us an accurate battlefield picture. Then there was the unexpected tempo of the enemy resistance, leading up to the removal of Colonel V'Tar."

"A necessary action by Lieutenant Arterius, you would agree?"

"Perhaps." Oraka's tone was guarded. "Colonel V'Tar was popular with the troops, and being so unceremoniously cut away from the regiment angered many senior NCOs. Then there was the orbital strikes that wound up causing us friendly casualties. The bloody close quarters fighting in amongst the streets as we routed the defenders, and finally the hit and run attacks from the enemy remnants are all serving to sew dissension amongst my men. And that was before rumours of discord from senior leadership began filter down amongst them."

"Discord?"

Oraka knew he was crossing dangerous ground, but he was not one to flinch from telling hard truths. "To put it bluntly, sir, the troops no longer have full confidence in the chain of command. Your leadership has been noticeably absent from the battlefield. Admiral Jhirx, despite her successful suppression of the orbital defences, has made several interjections into the ground campaign. These orders have not proven to be effective in the slightest, and your failure to countermand those orders has not endeared you to the lower ranks."

Desolas accepted the rebuke in Oraka's words without complaint. "And what do you think, Colonel?"

"I think, sir, that this war needs soldiers, not politicians." Oraka went silent.

Desolas half laughed. "Colonel, you and my brother must be sharing notes in your spare time."

"Sir?"

"I will give you the same answer as I gave him." Desolas looked Septimus in the eye. "If my attention has been diverted away from this conflict by political ambitions or special projects, then I have truly been at fault. You have my unconditional apology, Colonel, and you may relay that to the men. From this hour, they will have my full attention. This war will have my full attention. And if these humans do not…"

He and Oraka lifted their heads at the same time as numerous, repetitive, muffled thumps sounded through the bulkhead. Oraka was first to move, striding toward the door leading from the command briefing room to the bridge, his hand moving to the sidearm on his hip…

…and witnessed the main blast doors to the bridge blow open and a dozen and more black armoured figures pour in with rifles raised.

There was not so much as a pause as the enemy soldiers opened fire, automatic rifle fire gunning down crewmen as they sat at heat monitoring stations and weapons data screens. Oraka's eyes widened his anger, his arm reflexively yanking his pistol free and drawing it upwards.

Gross muscle memory handled everything, years of repetitive drills and finely honed practice sessions making placing the sights of his heavy sidearm on the head of one of the alien boarders and pulling the trigger as easy and as natural as taking a piss.

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Corporal Medcroft was the first of the strike force to fall. Twenty six years old, a veteran of anti-piracy operations, an experienced N4 operative. He had a failed marriage, a four year old daughter he never got to see, and a girlfriend of two years who he was trying to work things out with.

Shields weakened from a firefight with the guards right outside the bridge, he died when a single heavy calibre round blasted through the visor of his helmet and took him right under his left eye. He died instantly, rifle falling from limp hands as he dropped to the ground.

Shepard tripped over his body, narrowly ducking the stream of rifle fire that cut Private Hwang to pieces behind him. He rolled naturally and came up with his rifle in the shoulder, catching the turian security officer on the elevated portion of the bridge with a double tap to the chest to lower his shield and another single shot to the head.

His aim shifted down to the doorway where he'd seen another armoured turian, but his intended target had vanished. He swapped targets to another one of the aliens manning a console, but was caught off guard by the hammer blows of rounds hitting the side of his armour.

Wheeling around again, he found himself facing five more of the aliens charging from the doorway he had only just checked. Three of them wore the standard armour he had seen on the surface. One wore a more elaborately wrought and engraved hardsuit, but his armour was still battered, scoured and filthy from battle. The lead one…the lead one wore plating that shined like a mirror, with elaborate golden filigree scrolled across the glimmering surface. None of them had any armament heavier than a sidearm, and they were charging right toward him.

If Shepard had been a neutral observer, he might have been awed at the bravery of his foes, astounded by the discipline it took to charge his rifle with a peashooter. Instead, he merely cursed their stupidity and began to backpedal, squeezing down on his trigger as he tried to bring down the turian in the shining armour.

The human commandoes were hurled back by the sudden charge, pushed away from their hard fought breach over the bodies of four of their own.

What had begun as a massacre on the bridge had been transformed instantly into a pitched firefight in the corridor outside.

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Had the Hierarchy Navy's Standard Operating Protocols, set down in the years following the Krogan Rebellions, been followed from the start, the humans would never have set foot on the ship. If proper identification had been demanded by the fighter picket, if a proper security detail had been present in the hangar, if the security monitor on duty hadn't been engaged in carnal relations with the other security monitor on duty, if, if, if.

A few SOPs, however, were enough to save the Tyreaus from immediate, ignoble and inglorious destruction. The first, one that Jhirx had insisted on, was that the Tyreaus was to be crewed with a light battalion of Lancers, near three hundred shipboard infantry. The second, which the battalion commander had insisted on, was that no less than thirty of those Lancers were to be on five minutes' notice to deploy and defend any portion of the ship. The third, which the battalion's junior officers had insisted on, was that the platoon was to be on two minutes' notice to deploy, not five.

When word reached the Lancers lounging in the team room of gunfire on the bridge, action was not short in coming. Already in most of their armour, the platoon grabbed helmets, weapons and combat harnesses before triggering their barriers and running for the special **turbo-lifts installed in the reaction room. The lifts overrode any other priorities the** dreadnaught's computer was programmed with, and would allow the team to deploy to defend the bridge within minutes.

So efficient and rapid was the reaction of the emergency forces that they had cleared the ready room a full thirty seconds before another alarm sounded, urgently bleating the distress of another portion of the ship to an empty room.

Had the platoon commander seen where the alarm was coming from, he might have decided differently.

Main engineering was not somewhere that you left undefended.

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Robert McDevitt was many things. Lover, fighter, decent baritone. Subtle? He'd never been good at subtle.

Breaching any obstacle was best done with high explosives, in his opinion. And the enemy main engineering compartment, with its big heavy blast doors, was most definitely an obstacle.

Half a dozen turian engineers were blasted apart by shrapnel as the demolitions charges on the main door turned it into shards of flying metal. Dazed and confused, the remaining engineers struggled to draw weaponry as the Marine platoon entered in a flurry of fire.

McDevitt shot on the move, steadily placing one foot in front of the other and firing careful, rapid shots at any alien raising a sidearm or rifle of any kind.

Unarmed and unarmoured, the firefight became a rout almost immediately. Engineers fled in all directions, unable to escape the murderous rampage of the boarders.

McDevitt could see the main eezo core, and felt a spike of anticipation as he passed a hand over the demolitions charges on his back.

"Clear the deck." His voice roared over the gunfire. "Check those corners."

Grabbing sidearms from emergency lockers, the engineers fought back savagely, but their actions were futile and they seemed to know it. The Hierarchy hadn't bothered issuing high quality sidearms to its engineering crews since the Rebellions.

They did not, however, leave engineering defenceless.

At the rear of the engineering compartment, behind the main core, two blast doors opened. Two figures in iron grey armour stepped out.

McDevitt was already accustomed to the height of his enemies. The shortest ones he had seen still stood a good head above him. These ones were something different. Each one stood at almost two and a half metres. Their armour was twice as broad as the troopers he had seen on the ground and must surely have been twice as thick.

More worrying than that, however, were the titanic rotary barrelled weapons each one was pointing in the direction of his team.

He had time to scream out 'Take cover!' before a rainstorm of bullets swept over his men.

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**FOR EYES ONLY OF COUNCILOR ELITASA**

**SENT FROM OPERATIVE 46**

**SUBJECT: LAST WATCH SUBJECT EVALUATION**

**(1065 AD, HUMAN CALENDAR)**

**Most honoured Dalatress. Per your orders I have compiled all relevant data on the most recent developments in turian special warfare programs for your perusal.**

**As you know, the ratio for engagement between turian and krogan forces up until Menae was four to one. The turians, recognising the superior strength and overall lethality of a krogan warrior, will not commit to a battle unless they can guarantee a four to one supremacy rate in individual firefights.**

**Understand that this is based mostly on manoeuvre principles that govern turian ground strategy. A krogan force may well outnumber the turians on the ground, but turian combined arms tactics allows them to carve the krogan forces up into smaller units that they can destroy piecemeal.**

**The turians, however, appear to recognise this weakness in their defensive posturing. Whilst a well supplied offensive force can easily trick the krogan into separating their forces, a concerted krogan offensive on a turian defensive line can often prove disastrous unless immediate reinforcements are despatched for a flanking assault.**

**For some months now, the turians have been collaborating with their premiere weapons developers and their vol financiers. And today, at 0330, the first Last Watch units were deployed onto the battlefield at Canruum.**

**The Last Watch, ma'am, are krogan killers, pure and simple. With armour designed to withstand a direct hit from a tank and offensive weapons more suited for a gunship than an individual soldier, the Last Watch are drawn from the ranks of the Black Watch. Cybernetic enhancement takes place, and each subject is bonded with his armour. As near as I can tell, each one is committed to the procedure for life. The turian propensity for self-sacrifice means that each pilot is a volunteer.**

**I can confirm, ma'am, that with only thirty Last Watch units bolstering two regiments, an entire krogan division was slaughtered inside three hours of pitched battle.**

**Be advised ma'am, that these new units, though incredibly powerful and resilient, are not indestructible. Five were destroyed in the battle, and another three so badly damaged that the pilots had to be euthanized. They are not indestructible. Just very difficult to kill.**


End file.
